Something There That Wasn't There Before
by Peachdreamsandperseus
Summary: It's summer 1914 and, faced with the loss of everything they hold dear, Sybil and Tom find themselves almost forced into a marriage of convenience. With both hearts broken beyond repair, neither is convinced that they can ever learn to love the other but, when the war threatens to separate them, they begin to realise they might just be the best thing to ever happen to each other.
1. A Done Deal

_**This is potentially my next project after Ballabile is finished (I don't think that's going to take me very long) and so I just thought that I'd publish a prologue or teaser of sorts to try and find out if anyone would be interested in reading a story like this. It's an idea I've had for a while now based on a few AU ideas that were floating around Tumblr like "what if Sybil and Tom knew each other as children" and such. Let me know what you think so I can decide if I'm going to continue :) **_

* * *

**February 1900 **

His father ignores the baby as she cries - an ear piercing wail of desperation as she seeks the attention he's been denying her. "_It's not her fault_," the boy thinks to himself. "_She just wants her Mam same as all babes do_."

A Mam that she will never have.

He can't even begin to process what has happened in the past twenty-four hours. The doctor keeps saying something about "complications" and a fancy sounding medical term that he'll one day learn to be eclampsia. He talks about how there was nothing that could have been done and that he's sorry for their loss. The flowers and the telegrams offering condolence from their family and close friends who had already heard the news had begun arriving around midmorning and it was only then that the reality of the situation had hit him.

His mother is dead and she isn't coming back.

He'll never feel her warm embrace again, hear her sing as she potters about the house or laugh with the elegant ladies who come to tea. She'll never see him married or hold her grandchildren in her arms and it pains him to think of just how much he's going to go through without his mother there to love and support him as he journey's through life.

It's almost too much for a ten-year-old to take in.

He sits on the stairs, watching as the undertakers take her away. His father hangs his head out of respect - he's not the sort of man to show his feelings, but the boy would have thought that he'd show at least **some** emotion at a time like this. Unable to watch for a moment longer, he scurries back upstairs to the nursery and to keep his new baby sister company. Standing on his tiptoes (he's rather small for his age), he reaches into the bassinet and smiles as her tiny hand wraps around his finger.

"Hello," she whispers as the baby begins to settle. "I'm your brother, well, one of them. You have another, his name is Kieran and we're going to look after you. We had one more, and a sister too, but they're with the angels now, just like Mam is. You haven't got a name yet, but mine's..."

"Tommy."

Tom looks over his shoulder and sees Kieran standing in the doorway. His brother is almost fourteen, tall and lanky and beginning to show the first signs of developing into manhood.

"Da wants us," he says. "Aunt Margaret is on her way. Leave her, there's a girl coming over to feed her soon."

Tom frowns, not liking the way that everyone keeps referring to his sister as **her**. "She needs a name..."

"I know," Kieran replies. "But Da's been... well he's been busy. "

The boy sighs and manages to lean in enough to kiss the baby's head before following his brother out of the nursery. "I like Órlaith."

**_-xxx-_**

**August 1903**

About a year or so after his wife had died, Ted Branson has taken his two sons and their sister (whom they'd all agreed should be named Órlaith Grace) to London to oversee the expansion of his company onto English soil. It was in those first few months that he had found an investor in a Mr Marmaduke Painswick and, through him, was introduced to none other than the Earl of Grantham. Ted was no fool, he had seen what impact the British had had on his beloved Ireland, but he also know that it was because of the ruling classes that he had made it to where he was today. His mother had been a housemaid for a wealthy tradesman who had made his fortune importing and exporting an all manner of goods from across the Empire. Ted had started work as an errand boy when he was a lad and the same gentleman had in turn helped to educate him and taught him his trade before eventually providing his young protégé with the financial means necessary to set up his own business. For the most part, Ted was a self made man and, while his feet may have been firmly planted in the middle class these days, he never forgot where he came from or the help that he had had getting there. It was a lesson that he had also tried to teach his children, especially when they were surrounded by the opulence of stately homes such as Downton Abbey. Every summer, the Earl and his wife had invited the Bransons to attend their annual garden party, staying with the family and several other guests before returning to London and it was during one of these summers, that of 1903 to be exact, that young Master Tom Branson would be properly introduced to a girl who would one day become the most important woman in his life.

**_-xxx-_**

Seven-year-old Sybil Crawley chases her cousin, his friend Larry (whom she really doesn't like), and the eldest of the Branson brothers outside to the stables where Lynch has had the grooms prepare their horses.

"Go back inside, Sybil," Patrick says, keeping one eye on Kieran to make sure nobody sees him slipping a bottle of whisky into his saddle bag. "You can't come with us."

Sybil pouts. "Why? You always let me come riding with you."

"Not this time," replies Patrick, crouching down so that he's at eye level with his young cousin and placing his hand on her arm. "This is a... well it's just for us older boys, not little girls on their ponies."

"But Lynch says I'm almost as good as Mary was when she was eight," she protests.

Patrick sighs. "Just... no, Sybil.

"You should listen to your cousin," says Larry as he mounts his horse - a spirited chestnut mare that he treats a little more roughly than is probably necessary. "Go back inside and play with your dolls."

"I do not play with dolls!" she shouts with a stamp of her foot as the boys ride off down the path, laughing amongst themselves as they go. "And Patrick's not the Earl yet so I don't **have** to listen to him."

Instead of going back up to the nursery or seeking the company of her sisters, Sybil runs as fast as her little legs will carry her into the woodlands just behind the stables. There's a clearing there that is her secret place and hers alone. It's the place she goes to when she wants to escape from the world that expects her to behave like a well brought up young lady instead of the fun loving child that she wants to be. On her way, she picks up a stick and begins beating the long grass to unleash some of the anger she feels towards her cousin and his friends. She hates how he is around them - he's different and just an arrogant teenage boy instead of the big brother she's always adored.

She eventually comes to the clearing and stops dead in her tracks when she sees that there's already someone there.

"You're in my spot," she says haughtily, almost as though she's trying to imitate her eldest sister.

Tom had though that this was as good a place as any to spend some time alone - he hadn't fancied tagging along with his brother and the others but it had been far too hot inside to stay in the library.

"Ummm... I didn't know there were reservations in place."

"There aren't," she replies. "It's just that nobody else knows where it is."

Tom closes his book and stares back at her, not sure how he should react to this somewhat indignant seven-year-old who has grown much braver since the last time he saw her (she only ever used to give him a shy smile whenever he said hello and then would return to whatever it was that had been occupying her previously). "Well I obviously do," he says. "Though I just found it."

"You're just another stupid... boy."

"My brother's annoying you too then, I take it?"

Sybil nods and takes a couple of steps towards him, tossing her stick aside as though surrendering an offensive weapon. "And Patrick... and that horrible Larry too," she replies. "But not you... you're nice. What are you reading?"

"Treasure Island," he replies. "My father used to read it to me all the time. Not so much anymore, not since..." he goes quiet then, not sure that he wants to talk about what happened with her.

"Papa never reads to me," she admits a little sadly. "Would you? You have a nice voice."

Before he can say anything in protest, she's sitting beside him on the grass and leaning up against the tree as he flicks back to the beginning of the book. When she falls asleep against his shoulder an hour or so later, he carries her back to the house and upstairs to the nursery where he leaves the book on the bedside table with a note written in his best handwriting.

_Lady Sybil, _

_We'll finish the story another day. _

_Your friend,_

_T Branson._

**_-xxx-_**

**July 1914 **

So much has changed since that summer of innocence more than a decade ago now and both families have suffered losses that they never could have dreamed they would have to endure. For the Crawleys, the sinking of the Titanic had cost them their heir and the spare with Patrick and his father, James, having been lost at sea and never found. Of course, they now had Matthew in their lives and he'd proved to be a welcome addition to the family and with whose mother the Dowager Countess enjoyed many a sparring match, much to the endless amusement of the others. Nobody could contain their joy when he had proposed to Mary earlier in the year and she'd almost immediately accepted - their wedding at the beginning of the summer still remained the highlight of the season, with the great and the good of society congregating in the tiny village in North Yorkshire to witness the spectacle as the future Earl of Grantham and the eldest daughter of the present Earl pledged their lives to each other for as long as they both should live. It had come as no surprise to the family that this was not the marriage of convenience that they had all initially hoped it would be, but one of a deep and passionate love that had blossomed over time and would endure whatever the world would throw at it. In the weeks following the wedding, Edith had received a proposal from Sir Anthony Strallan - a baronet as old as Robert but who clearly made her very happy. There had been reservations at first (mostly in relation to his future son-in-law's age), but the Earl had finally given his blessing to the marriage and preparations were well under way for a September wedding. This, of course, left Sybil who at eighteen years old was making her debut in society and who was due to be presented at court in little over a week. She had grown into quite the beauty and, coupled with her sharp mind and kind heart, was certain to have no shortage of potential suitors seeking her hand.

The Bransons, however, had not been quite so fortunate - a telephone call in the middle of the night had sent the house into mourning once more when they were informed that Kieran had been killed in a fatal car accident. Surrounding himself with wild parties and even wilder women, the heir to the Branson empire had lived fast and died young - the playboy prince of Dublin town had paid the ultimate price for his tomfoolery and it had left his family in turmoil. Tom had never shown any interest whatsoever in following his father's footsteps, instead perusing his love of academia and studying history and politics at the city's Trinity University. His socialist principles were often the source of conflict between he and his father, but it was Kieran's death that had truly driven a wedge between them and it scared Ted to think that his son didn't know the first thing about trade and industry, nor was his heart in it, and it would be to him that everything would pass to upon his own death.

**_-xxx-_**

Ted and Robert had remained close over the years, especially after the passing of Marmaduke. Meeting one night at one of London's gentleman's clubs, Robert shares a secret with his friend that has been troubling him for some time.

"What do you mean the money's gone?" Ted asks, somewhat startled as he flicks the ash from his cigar into an ashtray on the table between the two leather armchairs in the corner by the fire - there's no chance of them being overheard here and the last thing Robert wants is for anyone to be privy to this somewhat delicate conversation.

"I asked Murray just as much," replies the Earl. "Apparently, the venture I invested most of Cora's money has failed and it's gone. Simple as that."

"Good God," Ted replies. "Does she know."

Robert shakes his head. "I suspect that she knows something has been bothering me, though I can't bring myself to tell her until I have a solution to the problem."

Ted grows pensive for a moment, staring into the roaring flames of the fire as he tries to think of any ideas. Suddenly, it dawns on him - he knows that it would be asking a lot, but they could both benefit from it and surely it was a risk worth taking. "I need an heir," he says. "The boy's useless, all he cares about is poetry and politics. I need an heir and you need money... think about it."

"I'm not following, old chap."

"My son and your daughter... married."

Robert's eyes widen. "Sybil and Tom? Don't be absurd," he says, taking a sip of his brandy. "Do you really think it could work?"

Ted shrugs. "It might do. I'm not suggesting that we just tell them that they **have** to marry, that's a little bit draconian, but we try to get them to spend as much time as they can together and suggest it to them at the end of the summer."

Robert sighs. "I don't know."

"Well at least just think about it," Ted replies. "All three daughters married in a single summer... that's almost unheard of."

"Yes, and that's what worries me," says Robert. "Sybil's headstrong at the best of times and I can't see her agreeing. I have no doubt your boy's the same if you say his passion is politics."

Ted smirks. "Then they're already a good match," he says, chinking his glass against Robert's. In formulating this plan, neither man knows just how many hearts they will be breaking and the lives they will destroy...

But maybe, just maybe, it could be the start of a very unconventional love story.


	2. Wild Young Hearts

_**So, here we are at last - now that I'm done with exams (thank God) and I haven't yet got a job, this fic will be my new summer project. I'm really excited about it, actually. It's all planned out and I'm ready to go, so expect lots of angst, plenty of heartbreak and moments that will make you want to throw your laptops out of the window... basically the same sort of stuff you've come to expect from me. Enjoy :) x**_

* * *

She sighs in her sleep and nuzzles her head against his chest as she begins to wake from her slumber at exactly the same time as she does every morning. Sometimes, she wishes that she could be afforded the same luxury as the man who shares her bed, getting up whenever she wishes, though, that being said, he rarely utilises that opportunity being just as much of an early riser as she is. But, then again, this is the way things have to be between them because, should they ever be caught together, there was so much that each of them had to lose.

Bronagh Connelly was the daughter of a school teacher and his wife from County Wexford and, as an educated young woman, had found employment as a governess for the then twelve-year-old daughter of a Mr Edward Branson from Dublin shortly after her father had died. The family had needed money and, despite his cold demeanour and the stern look upon his prematurely ageing face, Branson was a fair employer and Miss Órlaith was a delight. There had been trepidation at first as to whether or not someone so young was capable of taking on such a responsibility. The family divided their time between both Dublin and London and it had been hard for Bronagh being so far away from home for the first time. She had wanted to appear strong and resilient, setting a good example for the girl in her care, but one cold winter night in early 1914 as she'd sat on the step by the back door of the Branson's London townhouse having misplaced her keys, that her resolve had cracked at last.

_She couldn't remember the last time that she had cried so hard - she hadn't really wept for her father, not much as they had known that he had been terribly ill for quite some time and so his passing had been something of a blessing in the end - bit now it just seemed as though everything that had been niggling away at the back of her mind, all of her worries and he fears had just overwhelmed her. _

_ "Are you alright, Miss?" a deep, lyrical voice asks her from somewhere in the darkness._

_ "I... I'm fine, sir," she replies, scrambling to her feet as she realises to whom the voice belongs. They've never really been properly introduced, for the younger Mr Branson very much keeps himself to himself to himself, floating around the house like some sort of ghost and his presence there is rarely registered by anyone other than his sister. He much prefers the company of like-minded friends, spending more time living with them than under his own father's roof. With his incredibly good looks and his charm, Bronagh couldn't help but think that women were involved - that he was something of a cad much as his late brother had been. She knew the tragic history of the Branson family, the little girl who died of scarlet fever at just seven-years-old, the stillborn baby boy and the untimely passing of Aileen Branson shortly after giving birth to Órlaith and then, most recently, that of Kieran two years earlier. Death favoured this family, and it almost seemed as though his shadow never fell to far away from wherever they resided. _

_ "I had something urgent to attend to and forgot my keys," she says being deliberately vague for she was hardly going to reveal to her employer's son that the urgent nature of her outing had been a frantic dash to make it to a nearby chemist before it closed to obtain some feminine products for her young charge who, having grown up in a very male dominated household, had been somewhat terrified by this new and seemingly sudden change going on in her body. Ever the dutiful governess, Bronagh had explained as her mother had explained to her, given her something to tide her over with before seeking the permission of Mrs Evans, the housekeeper, to run her errand. "I hadn't realised just how late it was. The others are probably preparing for dinner and so won't have heard me trying to get in."_

_ Mr Branson retrieves his own key to the back door from his coat pocket - he often comes in through this way, almost as though he's purposefully trying to avoid his presence in the house known. "And that's why you're crying?" he chuckles, not because he finds it funny, but because that's just his way with people. "Come on, let's get you inside, you must be frozen."_

_Sure enough, the kitchen is a hive of activity and nobody so much as notices that the two of them have just wandered in off the streets._

_ "You know, I'd ask what it was that was troubling you," Tom says, allowing her to pass as they reach the servants' staircase. "But I sense that you're in something of a hurry."_

_ "I am," she replies. "And, if you don't mind me saying, I'm surprised you care, sir. Not many of your sort do."_

_ He grows pensive then, knowing that she means men of his class. "Of course I do," he replies. "You're so wonderful to my sister and she adores you."_

_ "And she you, sir."_

_ "What's your name?" he calls after her as she takes her leave with a slight bow of her head. "It's just... I've not really had the chance to introduce myself properly what with me rarely being here."_

_ She can't help but smile slightly - perhaps he does genuinely care after all. "Bronagh, sir. Bronagh Connelly."_

_ "Well, Bronagh Connelly, I'm Tom and it was a pleasure to meet you at last."_

**_-xxx-_**

It had been some time before she'd finally brought herself to be able to call him by his given name as he'd so often requested whenever they found themselves alone together. Their friendship had quickly developed between them from that evening on the stairs and it wasn't long until, after one very heartfelt conversation in his father's study, that the seeds of romance were sewn. When the time had come for them to explore new intimacies, Bronagh had been surprised to discover that he had never actually been with a woman before. He'd laughed when she had apologised repeatedly for jumping to conclusions, telling her that there had been a couple of women in his life whom he had courted, but he'd never loved any of them enough to be with them so wholly and completely as he had been with her. They had both known that they were falling hard for each other and that things could indeed get incredibly complex should their secret affair be discovered before they were ready to make it known, and they had set about making plans. Tom had, in not so many words, proposed to her and she had, again not in so many words, accepted but he'd told her that he would do it properly down on one knee and with a ring in hand once everything was settled.

It had been six months since they'd started making arrangements for their future together, both agreeing that their best option was probably Dublin with a view to moving into the country once the children came along. However, neither of them had been successful in their searches for employment and so they remained in London, stealing kisses in darkened corners and sneaking into each other's beds in the dead of night. Bronagh's faith was waning, but Tom kept hold of it, stoking that flame of optimism with his wise words and logical thought.

"What time is it?" she croaks, rubbing a hand across her face.

"Just gone six," Tom replies with a yawn as he checks his pocket watch. He knows that that means they've overslept and that he'll have to return to his own room before the rest of the staff begin going about their work. He's never really understood why, for a household so small, his father insists on employing so many people, but at the same time he supposes that he'd rather see them here with a roof over their heads and money in their pocket than out on the streets. Tom's views on the world and the way his father's staff should be treated differ from those of Edward's, and the stag and the young buck have locked antlers too many times to count on matters such as those. "I wish we could stay here all morning though."

"Hmmm, so do I," Bronagh sighs. "When are you going to marry me, Tom? When are we going to run away and do as we please?"  
Tom chuckles and places a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "Soon, my love, soon." They have a tendency to speak with one another in Gaeilge, that ancient tongue of their homeland concealing their secret from the rest of the world even more.

"My patience is wearing thin," she tells him, sitting up in bed and staring straight into his eyes. "I know that you said it will all be sorted in time, but this feels as though it's taking forever and, I love you Tom, but I'm not sure that I can wait that long."

He caresses her cheek, tucking a strand of her soft auburn hair back behind her ear and gazing lovingly into her eyes which are the colour of rain. "I'm not asking for forever," he says. "Just a few more weeks. I wrote to an old university friend a few days ago who might be able to help us... I have a good feeling about this. Trust me."

She would be right to trust him but, in the end, it would only lead to heartbreak.

**_-xxx-_**

Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham, stares in abject horror at what her husband has just told her.

"You cannot be serious, Robert," she says. "You've had some schemes in the past, but this is something else entirely."

The Earl sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you really think that this is a decision I've made lightly? That I would gamble with my daughter's life like this unless I had no other choice?" His voice falters and it's evident that even he too is unsure of his agreement with Edward. He can only vaguely remember the boy, Tom, who had been small for his age and quiet, spending much of his time alone in the library whenever he would come to Downton. He hasn't seen him in years though, not since before he started at University anyway what with him always choosing to remain in Dublin over the summer. The two children had been fond of each other, but people change just as times do, and Sybil had become a headstrong and flighty young thing, very much marching to the beat of her own drum. He likes the fact that Sybil is spirited, but sometimes her opinions and way of seeing the world can be a little too progressive for Robert's taste, though he thinks he only has himself to blame for that - he and Cora had spent so much time almost obsessing over the whole situation with Mary and Matthew and, to a lesser extent, finding a suitable match (or any match at all, as some had rather cruelly teased) for Edith, that their youngest daughter had been somewhat neglected by her parents. Sybil was a free sprit though and didn't seem to mind, though it would take a strong minded man to be able to spend the rest of his life with such a strong-minded young woman and the Earl could only hope that Mr Tom Branson was up to the task.

"You and I married for money," Cora says quietly, knowing that her husband even to this day feels ashamed for his motives in his pursuit of his bride. "But you chose me of your own free will and I accepted. Mary's marriage was the one we all wanted, but she chose Matthew for love and I know you had your reservations about Edith marrying Anthony, but she' doing it for love. What makes Sybil so different when, out of all three of our girls, she probably has the most love to give? This is barbaric, Robert... you cannot force our daughter into marriage and expect me to stand aside and watch you do it, because I will fight for her."

Robert sighs yet again. "Nobody is forcing either of them to do anything," he tells her. "We don't plan to march them down to the nearest church without so much as a hint of what they're doing, but Ted and I plan to introduce them at Sybil's ball tonight. They'll spend the rest of the season in each other's company as much as possible and then, when the time is right, we suggest the idea of marriage."

Cora shakes her head. "You have it all thought out, haven't you?" she says with a hint of venom in her voice. "But tell me this, Robert, what happens if and when they refuse?"

"Sybil has many qualities about her that any young man would find endearing."

"And if the young man's qualities aren't endearing to Sybil?"

"If they say no, then they shan't be forced."

"Do you promise me that?"

Robert crosses the room and takes his wife's hand in his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "My dear, I promise you," he says though, deep in his heart, he doesn't suppose that the senior Mr Branson will give up quite so easily. "Where is Sybil, I haven't seen her since breakfast?"

"She's gone to tea with Imogen Belasis, her aunt was kind enough to invite them both."

**_-xxx-_**

Eighteen-year-old Sybil Crawley sits under the shade of the trees in the garden of the Belasis family's London home on Park Lane, attempting to catch a butterfly on her ungloved finger as it flutters around her.

"Don't move," the voice of the man sitting opposite her whispers and she frowns as the creature quickly flies away again.

"That was your fault," she teases, glances up to see him laughing as he works. "What are you doing anyway?"

"You'll see," he replies, his pencil scratching across the paper, though he should know by now that Sybil is an inquisitive young thing and she quickly moves to occupy the seat at the small white wrought iron table and peers over his shoulder.

"Tom, this is exquisite," she says, examining her portrait sketched out on the paper in front of her. "You really to have an extraordinary talent." Tom Belasis is three years older than Sybil and has recently graduated from Oxford. As the eldest son and heir to Viscount Darsbury, the pair have known each other practically their entire lives what with the close friendship between their families. Tom's cousin Imogen was a debutante along with Sybil this season which gave the pair a number of excuses to spend time in each other's company for, very much like another young man named Tom and his sweetheart, theirs was also a romance being conducted in secret.

He had first kissed her at Downton's annual servants' ball several months earlier, telling her just how much of a wonderful woman she had become and how he had admired her for so long. Declaring his undying love for her had made Sybil realise that she too shared similar feelings for her oldest and dearest friend and she'd been abuzz with excitement when Tom had told her that he would approach her father and ask for her hand by this time the following year. They had chosen to keep their courtship a secret as they both had somewhat overbearing families with a habit of interfering when it came to matters of the heart. There was no doubt that both sides would agree to the union of houses Grantham and Darsbury, but the young couple had just wanted to be certain that this was the right thing for them both. Besides, Sybil hadn't even made her debut in society yet and so it was inevitable that they would be told to wait until then anyway.

Tom's graphite stained fingers find Sybil's underneath the table and their hands fit perfectly together like the pieces of a puzzle. "Will you speak to my father tonight?" she asks softly, lest they be overheard.

Tom shakes his head. "You know what we agreed, Sybil," he replies. "You'd do the season properly and then I'd approach him at your sister's wedding."

"But it seems like such a long time away."

"I know, my darling," he says, giving her hand a loving squeeze. "But you read the news probably more than I do and you know that there's a war coming. They say that, when it does, it will be over by Christmas and that's when I can come back home to you... to love you, marry you and build our lives together."

Sybil sighs wearily - she's long known of his desire to answer the call to arms when it comes and do his duty to King and Country. "Is there absolutely no changing your mind on this matter?" she asks. "You're still adamant that you'll enlist?"

Tom nods. "I have to, Sybil," he says. "It's tradition for the Belasis men to..."

"But what if you don't come back?" she interrupts, finally asking the question that has been playing on her mind for weeks.

"But I will," he tells her. "I promise you... because I have something to come back for."

He's about to lean in to kiss her when the voices of his mother and cousin can be heard as they come through the French doors at the back of the house and out into the garden, causing the couple to spring apart from each other in a move that has become so precisely executed.

"Sybil, darling," Lady Darsbury beams, greeting her guest with a kiss to both cheeks as the girl stands. "How wonderful to see you again, my dear. I must say, you looked absolutely stunning when presented to their majesties last week. Are you looking forward to tonight? I daresay your dance card will never be empty."

"Thank you, Lady Darsbury," she replies courteously as she sits back down, feeling Tom very deliberately press his leg against hers under the table. "I am rather excited, yes, and I hope you're right, for I dearly love to dance."

Sybil subtly glances to her left and smiles at Tom, both of them looking forward to the prospect of being allowed to remain so close to each other in public as such occasions are rare and so they like to make the most of them when they arise.

Little do they know, their fate has already been sealed by the hands of two men who really ought to start paying more attention to their children.


	3. I Could Have Danced All Night

_**Thank you all so much for taking an interest in this story because, as I said, I'm really looking forward to writing it. This is the second chapter I've posted this week so, if you missed it, you might want to go back and read that one first. Just a few quick notes though - I know it might seem like the women in this story have no autonomy whatsoever (or very little of it) but that's sort of the point. This is going to be about them looking at the cards that their fates have dealt them and learning how to play their hands. Secondly, Larry Grey is a massive prick and I know it's become something of a fandom cliche to write him like that (even though it's brilliantly done) but every story needs a panto villain and I want him to share that role with Ted. Saying that though, I hope you can all come to love Orlaith just as much as I do - she's going to grow up a lot and become something of the voice of reason. She and Tom are really all each other have because, following Kieran's death, their father became something of a bitter old man. I could go on forever with this, but big things are going to start happening and so I'll let you just read... enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

Sitting down to tea with her grandmother that afternoon, Sybil finally begins to feel the butterflies in her stomach. She had been fine when presented at court last week but, tonight, all eyes would be on her. Hundreds of invitations had gone out months ago, the Earl and Countess of Grantham cordially inviting the great and the good of society to whom they would present their youngest daughter.

"I have something for you," Violet says, reaching for a box on the table beside her. "Though I'm sure you already know what it is."

Sybil nods as she takes the box from her grandmother - inside, is a stunning tiara made of white gold and pearls, and she's seen it worn by both of her sisters when they had made their debuts. "This was your mother's, wasn't it?"

"It was and, my dear, I'm going to give you the same piece of advice that she gave to me," says Violet. "It's not the crown that makes the queen, but what's in here."

Sybil smiles as she watches the Dowager place a hand over her heart - it's rare to see such sentiment but she knows that there is an element of truth in the older woman's words. "Thank you, Granny," she says. "It really is beautiful... though, I must admit, I am beginning to feel rather nervous."

Violet dismissively waves a hand in the air. "You are doing far better than many young debs, my own sister was positively hysterical. You are a Crawley woman, it's in your blood to take all of this in your stride."

She doesn't know it in this moment, but Sybil would do well to listen to her grandmother's words.

**_-xxx-_**

Tom frowns as he straightens his bow tie in the mirror which makes his little sister giggle when he just can't seem to get it right.

"You should just let Alfred be your valet," she says, referring to the family's footman. "Father's always saying you should."

"Which is exactly why I won't let Alfred be my valet," he replies, finally satisfied with how it looks. "I don't need one and, even if I did, I'd ask him myself. He's a nice lad, but I just don't see the point in someone helping a grown man to dress."

"He wants one of the maids to see to me in the mornings," Órlaith tells him. "Especially seeing as how I'm wearing a corset now and I can start wearing my hair up as soon as I turn fifteen."

Tom looks mournfully at his sister - he hates how her childish innocence is beginning to be taken away from her and how his father is adamant that she will become a proper young lady who will marry well and perhaps gain a title and all that goes with it. "How are you finding the corset?"

"It's dreadful," she says, bracing her hands on her hips as though she's suddenly become aware of the discomfort again despite having almost become accustomed to it by now. "I fainted at dinner the first evening I wore one. I'm glad it was only people we know otherwise I would have been so embarrassed."

"Where was I that night?"

"I don't know," Órlaith shrugs. "I never know where you are these days."

"Well that's because, wherever I am, it's usually better than being here."

Órlaith looks genuinely saddened by his words and picks at a loose thread on her skirt. "Am even I so bad that you feel the need to disappear every night?"

"Oh, a stóirín," he sighs. "You are the only thing that makes being in this house bearable." Of course, that's a lie because there is another for whom he stays but he's not sure that he wants even Órlaith to know of his little secret yet. "And when you're old enough, I'll take you to my clubs and the music halls and we'll dance all night. How does that sound?"

"Is fifteen old enough?"

Tom laughs. "Not quite," he says, crossing the room and pulling her into a tight embrace. "Though I promise you we'll go one day."

Órlaith sighs. "I wish I could come with you tonight," she sighs. "I'd love to go to a ball and Lady Sybil is extremely pretty. I saw a photograph of her being presented to the King and Queen in the newspaper last week."

"I'm sure she is," says Tom who, having not seen the picture himself, can't visualise the lady in question as anything other than that little girl who used to run riot across the fields of Yorkshire all those years ago. "And so are you. You'll be the envy of everyone when it's your turn."

Órlaith beams up at her brother and hands him his pocket watch which she'd been toying with as she'd watched him finish getting dressed. "You look very handsome, by the way," she smiles. "Maybe you can find yourself a princess to bring to dinner."

Her brother chuckles and places a kiss to the top of her hair, wishing that he could tell her that his princess is currently locked away in her tower waiting for him to rescue her and take her away from this horrible place.

**_-xxx-_**

As custom dictates, it is Sybil's duty to dance with every eligible young man in attendance and, much to her delight, the first to request her company after she's danced the first waltz with her father is her darling Tom.

"You look beautiful," he whispers into her ear, making her blush prettily. "And, right now, I am the envy of every man in this room."

"You flatter me," she replies. "Though, Larry Grey looks positively green and I have to say that that makes me incredibly happy."

Tom chuckles. "For what it's worth, I've never liked him."

"Nor I," replies Sybil. "He's frightfully full of himself."

Her beau is about to reply when the appearance of Matthew cuts him off. "Do you mind if I interrupt?" he asks.

Tom bows his head to Matthew and relinquishes his hold on Sybil. "Of course, Mr Crawley," he says. "Lady Sybil, it was a delight. Might I have the pleasure of another dance later this evening?"

"Of course you may, Mr Belasis," Sybil smiles, both of them now used to keeping up the facade. She steps into Matthew's hold and looks into her brother-in-law's eyes, instantly recognising the look in them. "Mary sent you over, didn't she?"

Matthew smirks. "You mean to say that a man cannot dance with his dear cousin and sister on the eve of her ball without having an ulterior motive?"

Sybil rolls her eyes and laughs. "I saw the two of you conspiring."

"I'm surprised you had eyes for anyone other than Mr Belasis," Matthew replies. "If you must know, she did ask me to bring that up."

"It... it's nothing," she lies, not entirely sure that he buys it. "Though I am... fond of him. Very fond indeed."

"Charming young chap in your father's eyes," Matthew tells her, he too oblivious to the fact that Sybil is already technically betrothed to another. "He's a very lucky man."

"Well, I'm glad you approve," Sybil replies. "Though it's our secret, just until the end of the season so, please, don't say anything to Mama and Papa. I'd say not to tell Mary either, but she'll no doubt be eager to get the truth from you as soon as you return to her company."

"I'm saying nothing. Though we both know you're right."

**_-xxx-_**

From the corner of the room, Tom Branson watches the spectacle unfold before his eyes. He has to admit that Lady Sybil Crawley has blossomed into a very fine young woman and he smiles fondly to himself at the memory of the little girl with dirty knees and a torn dress for which she had been scalded something terrible by her governess.

"Ask her to dance," his father says. "You have to."

"Why?" asks Tom icily, swirling his champagne around the glass - he despises these things, and he can't think for the life of him why his father insisted that he come.

"Because you're an eligible bachelor and it's just the way things are done," Edward sighs. "She's a pretty girl, I would have thought that was just your thing."

Tom scowls at his father. "I value more than just a pretty face in a woman, Father," he says. "But I will do my duty. I wouldn't want to disappoint you... again."

Before his father can come back with some sort of retort, Tom sets down his glass and pushes his way through to the dancefloor where he spies Lady Sybil dancing in the arms of Mr Larry Grey.

"Excuse me," he says, tapping Larry on the shoulder. "May I?"

"Your timing is impeccable, thank you," Sybil says with relief once Larry has gone.

"My pleasure, my Lady," Tom smiles as he effortlessly leads her in their dance.

"He's such an odious man, I can't say I've ever really cared for him."

"I daresay I agree with you. He was a friend of my brother's and an absolute prig in my honest opinion."

Sybil nods in agreement. "**Was** a friend of your brother's? Then I'd say your brother is a wise man for severing all acquaintances with dearest Larry."

"He died, my Lady," Tom says quietly. "My brother died... several years ago now."

Sybil looks genuinely horrified by her faux pas and her grip on her partner's shoulder tightens. "Forgive me, sir," she apologises. "I... I didn't know."

Tom's lips curl up into a smile. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Sybil draws back a little and stares deep into his eyes, such a beautiful shade of blue that she finds herself almost lost in them. "Tom?" she asks after a moment. "Tom Branson? I can't believe it's you!"

"Are you well, Lady Sybil?"

"Oh Tom," she smiles. "I was always just Sybil to you. Time may have changed us both, but I want that to stay the same. And I am well, thank you. And yourself? I haven't seen much of you these past few years."

"I've been busy with university," he tells her. "I've spent most of my time in Dublin and decided to see a little bit of Europe with some friends. The most valuable lesson my brother's passing taught me is that life is short, and we must learn to make the most of it."

"You've become a wise man, Mr Branson," Sybil replies, teasing him with formalities. "A very wise man indeed."

**_-xxx-_**

Robert and Edward stand side-by-side on the gallery overlooking the ballroom, their eyes fixed on their respective children as they circle the floor in each other's arms.

"They make a striking couple, do they not?" Ted asks, sipping on his brandy.

Robert nods, resigning himself to the fact that his friend may be right. "Indeed they do," he agrees. "But Sybil has more suitors tonight than the princess Aurora."

"Then I suppose it's a good thing she seems to be enjoying my boy's company."

"In that case, I'd say you don't know Sybil at all," replies Robert. "She sees the good in everyone."

"They will marry, Robert," Ted tells him coolly. "Mark my words."

**_-xxx-_**

Both in need of some air and to find a certain Mr Belasis, Sybil steps out of the house and into the garden - besides the library (though much smaller than the one at Downton), the garden is her favourite part of Grantham House and she tries to spend as much time out here as possible when the weather permits it. Her mother complains that she spends far too much time in the sunshine for a Lady and her grandmother tells her that she'll start to resemble a common farmhand if her skin becomes any more tanned. Sybil doesn't care though, and she loves nothing more than the feeling of the sun's rays warming her skin as she lies on top of a blanket on the perfectly manicured lawn reading whatever novel has taken her fancy this week. One of the reasons why she adores her secret hideaway at Downton so much is that there's never anyone to usher her inside. She smiles as she recalls that first summer she'd shared that special place with Tom and how he'd read Treasure Island aloud to her - Oh, what a handsome man Mr Branson had become. Very handsome indeed, Sybil thought, though she wasn't shallow enough as to let that make her heart stray from her Tom.

As she rounds a corner, Sybil hears the raucous laughter of a group of young bachelor's congregated outside to smoke cigars and share a brandy. Curiosity getting the better of her, she pauses, lurking in the shadows so as to listen in on their conversation.

"The only open things a wife should have are her legs," the unmistakable booming voice of Larry Grey says. "As long as she lies back, thinks of England and gives me a string of sons then why should I care about anything else?"

Several of the men laugh and Sybil feels sick at Larry's words - she knows very little of the marriage bed, but even she knows that it's not completely naive of her to want her husband to show just a little bit of love and affection towards her and she can't help but pity the woman who will find herself one day thrust into the role of Mrs Laurence Grey.

"I hear Lord Grantham will give a generous dowry to whomever marries Lady Sybil," a voice with the vaguest hint of a Welsh accent says, though it's not one that she recognises. "Or at least that's to be believed if the price on the other two sisters' hands is anything to go by."

"Matthew Crawley is the future Earl of Grantham, I doubt he needed the dowry to entice him to such a prize as Lady Mary, and as for Sir Anthony Strallan, well, the old codger probably has more money than sense to be marrying Lady Edna."

"Edith."

"As if I care," he sneers. "Merton is one of the wealthiest houses in Yorkshire, I don't really need to worry about a girl's marriage settlement though there are a couple of assets she should bring to the marriage, and I think we can all agree that Lady Sybil's are very sizeable indeed."

Sybil's jaw drops in disgust as Larry holds his hands out in front of his chest, miming the action of groping a woman's breasts - she has a very good mind to storm over there and give him a piece of her mind but this is her ball, the night she's dreamed of since she sat in Mary's bedroom so many years ago and helped her get ready for her own, and the last thing she wants to do is cause a scene.

"Though the rest of her is a little... voluptuous for my liking. Nothing a good corset won't solve."

"She'll grow out of it," another voice says. "They usually do."

That's a voice that Sybil has no trouble in identifying, for there's no mistaking the lyrical Irish brogue of Mr Tom Branson. Unable to quite believe what she's hearing, Sybil tearfully storms off wondering how it could be that a boy who had once loathed his older brother's friends had grown into a man exactly like them...

Though, if she had stayed just another moment longer, she would have realised just how much she had misjudged the situation.

**_-xxx-_**

Larry raises an eyebrow reaches for his glass again. "Nothing a good corset won't solve."

Tom shakes his head. "She'll grow out of it, they usually do," he says. "Or so my aunt keeps saying to my sister... why should it matter though? It goes back to what I said earlier, there are more desirable qualities in a wife than just a pretty face." God, he despises the way these men speak about women, treating them like objects for their desires and vehicles for their sexual gratification. If he had his way, he wouldn't associate with these men any more, but he struggles to fit into the circle of society that his father has begun to move in and he can't afford to be ostracised any more than he already is. The upper classes - these Harrow, Eaton and Oxbridge educated aristocrats and members of the gentry - can't seem to figure out this apparent Mr Nobody from Nowhere. Several of them had known Kieran, but the younger Branson brother was something of an enigma, spending much of his time in the company of an eclectic, bohemian and worryingly liberal crowd. It was clear that many of them disliked Tom just as much as he did them, but they were tolerant of him because of who his father was and the fact that, in a few more years, his sister would make her debut and she would be a fine prize for any man to win.

"So you wouldn't care if your wife was an absolute heifer?"

Tom shrugs. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it takes all kinds to make a world. I'll only ever marry for love and, if I fall in love with a woman, then there must be something about her that I find beautiful, whether that be inside or out."

There's much sniggering at his words and Larry has to show great restraint not to spit out his brandy. "Good God, Branson, what is the matter with you?" he asks. "You're such a pansy at times. You're not one of... **those** men are you?"

"N... no."

"Have you ever even been with a woman?"

Tom opens his mouth to respond but honestly hasn't got a clue with what he's supposed to say to that. "I..."

"Oh no," Larry cuts in. "I forgot, you're Catholic. You'll burn in hell if you so much as catch a flash of a girl's ankle."

That being the final straw, Tom downs the last of his drink and slams the glass down on the stone wall against which he's been leaning. "I'd rather face eternal damnation than spend another minute listening to the utter rubbish that comes out of your mouth," he says sincerely. "Now, if you'll excuse me gentlemen... if any of you can be called that." With that, he takes his leave of the group and goes off in search of Lady Sybil - he knows that she heard them as he saw the unmistakable flash of her white gown fleeing back towards the house. The things those men had said were abhorrent and he just needs to make sure that she's alright, and he prays to God that she hasn't misunderstood the part he'd played in it all.

**_-xxx-_**

There's a knock at Sybil's bedroom door as she readies herself for bed having told Gwen, the ever faithful maid, that there was no need to wait up for her as it had been a long day for everyone, especially the staff.

"Mama," she smiles. "I thought you would have been in bed already."

The Countess shakes her head and crosses the room towards where her youngest daughter sits at her dressing table and silently offers to finish plaiting her hair. "I used to do this when you were a little girl," Cora says with a nostalgic smile. "It always took much longer than Mary's and Edith's. You have hair like mine, it's so thick."

"I pity poor Gwen in the mornings," Sybil laughs.

"For the first time tonight, I realised that you aren't that little girl anymore. You're such a beautiful young woman, Sybil and I'm very proud of you."

"I had such a wonderful time, Mama," she tells her mother. "And I could have danced all night, given the chance."

"I think you did," replies Cora. "I don't recall either of your sisters being in such high demand at their balls. I have a feeling that the rest of the season will be very busy for you."

"I hope so," says Sybil. "I quite like the idea of having a little bit of freedom at last. Though... Mama, might I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Do you think that, while we're in London, I might have some new corsets?" she asks, running her hands up and down her sides and feeling the curves of her waist and hips beneath her nightgown.

"I don't see why not," her mother says. "Sybil... is everything alright?"

"Fine," she lies. She despises corsets and she's never really let the insecurities that every teenage girl has about her body bother her, but Larry's words had hit a nerve. "I just think that it's time for a change. Something more... grown up."

Cora affectionately kisses the top of her daughter's head as she finishes with her hair. "Of course. Though, just remember, Sybil. No matter how grown up you are, you'll always be my beauty, always my baby. Goodnight, my darling."

"Goodnight, Mama."

It's with a heavy heart that Cora leaves her daughter for the night, knowing that she remains oblivious to her father's plans for her future.

**_-xxx-_**

As her mother had predicted, Sybil's social calendar is packed with engagements - from grand balls to tea with the daughters of duchesses, there's something new for her to be doing every day. On Sundays after church, Tom Belasis always approaches her father and asks if he might walk her back to Grantham House, taking the long way round and giving the pair enough time to publically enjoy each other's company. She's avoided Larry Grey like the plague since the night of her ball, though she has seen Tom Branson on several occasions. She's civil towards him, but incredibly wary as she's now no longer sure how what to think of him - if there wasn't a part of her that was sure that hadn't been his true character, she probably would have given him the same treatment as Larry. For the moment though, she's content just to speak to him and remain amicable, hoping that she can figure him out by the end of the season so as she can have her childhood friend back.

One particular morning towards the end of June, Sybil is in the dining room eating breakfast with her father, Matthew and Edith when Carson approaches her with a letter.

"This just arrived for you, my Lady," says the butler as she takes it from the silver tray. "It didn't arrive with the rest of the post."

Sybil furrows her brow as she thanks him and tears open the envelope. "It's from Imogen Belasis," she says, sensing the eyes of her family on her from all angles around the table. "She wants me to meet her in St James' park in an hour... she says it's urgent. May I go, Papa?"

Robert nods, trusting his youngest daughter enough now not to get involved in some of those God awful women's suffrage rallies she'd shown great interest in before they'd come down to London. "I don't see why not," he says. "Though just remember to be back in time for luncheon. I know that your Mama has reservations at Selfridges."

"I will, Papa," she smiles. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and get ready."

**_-xxx-_**

The note wasn't from Imogen - well, it **was**, but it had been sent on behalf of her cousin. Sybil can't help but pace as she wonders what could possibly be so urgent. Just as she's about to wonder if he's going to show up at all, she sees him quite literally running towards her - thankfully though, the park is relatively quiet and there aren't many people around to shoot disapproving glares in his direction.

"Sybil," he says breathlessly as he reaches her at last, taking both of her hands in his. "Sybil, I had to see you. I'm leaving London in an hour and I need to talk to you about something."

"Tom, is everything alright?"

"It's fine, or at least it will be," he replies. "It's just... have you read the papers this morning?"

Sybil shakes her head. "No, I received Imogen's note before I had the chance to. Why, what's happened?"  
"There's an Austrian Archduke been assassinated in Sarajevo, it means that war is coming to the continent and my father says it won't be long before Britain becomes involved too. I've been thinking, Sybil, and I want everything settled before I go to fight."

"I don't understand."

"I'm going to ask your father for his permission and his blessing to marry you at your family's garden party. I know it seems rash and sudden, but I'd rather spend what short time I may have left on this earth with you as my wife than to stand there on the battlefield, staring death right in the face and wondering what might have been. Say you'll let me ask him, Sybil... please."

Sybil's eyes widen. "Is this a proposal?"

Tom chuckles. "No, not yet at least," he says. "I have a month to find you a ring, to start making plans and set about giving you the happiness you deserve. I love you, Sybil... whatever happens."

In a bold move, Sybil drops Tom's hands and grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him in to press a firm kiss to his lips. "I love you too, with everything that I am," she says quietly. "And I want you to ask him."

Tom breathes a sigh of relief, thankful that she's agreeing to his plan. "I have to go," he says, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. "God knows I wish I could stay, but I can't." He takes hold of her hand once more and brings it to his mouth, placing a lingering kiss to the back of it as he stares into her eyes. "Until next time."

With mixed emotions, Sybil watches him leave and, unbeknown to her, it's the last time she'll ever see him as the boy who stole her heart...

War is coming - boys will become men and men will become cold blooded killers. It will change them all for the rest of their lives, and Tom Belasis is no exception to this.


	4. A Fine Ambition

_**This is quite a short chapter in comparison to the last, but I really didn't see the need to drag it out and I hope you can see why. Thank you so much for your reviews, favourites and follows - I promise I will start replying to them all again once I have some sort of normality back in my life. Right now, I'm running round all over the place and I just tend to check my emails on the go. Oh and, by the way, whenever I think of Ted, I picture Liam Neeson for some reason (just a little fun fact). Enjoy and let me know what you think - the fireworks are about to start going off! :) x**_

* * *

"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. Can I ask for silence?" All conversation ceases as the Earl runs out from underneath the marquee, clutching a piece of paper in one hand and waving his hat in the air with the other. "Because I very much regret to announce...that we are at war with Germany."

There's a series of audible gasps from a group of young ladies around Sybil's age but, mostly, all anyone can do is stand there in shock. There isn't a single person in attendance at the garden party who hadn't seen this devastating news coming, but it was still a shock nonetheless and now the widespread rumours and whispers were set to become a very dangerous reality.

From across the lawn, Sybil catches Tom's eye and a moment of understanding passes between them before she excuses herself from present company and heads off on her own. Her beau soon follows and it's not long before he finds her under the shade of an old oak tree.

"I knew this was going to happen," she says without even turning to face him. "But still a part of me hoped that it wouldn't."

"I know, my darling," he says, coming up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and dropping a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder. "But it has, and we must face it."

"Have you changed your mind?"

Tom falls silent for a moment - there are a number of things that he knows she could be talking about, and the answer is the same for each. "No."

Sybil sighs. "Then don't ask me," she says. "Not today. They'll just think that we're being foolish and romantic because we don't want to lose each other to the war."

"It'll be over by Christmas," Tom replies. "I can ask your father and we can have the banns read while I'm away."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Believe what?" he asks. "That it will be over by Christmas or that your father won't agree to it."

"Both!" Sybil exclaims, finally turning to face him. "I may not know a lot about war but, from what I do understand, it's unpredictable. With the way everyone's talking, you may as well just say it'll be done by the second Tuesday in December and you just can't do that. As for my father..." she flails her arms around a bit and groans. "I... I just don't know what to do anymore."

Tom furrows his brow as he watches her. "Are you saying you don't want to marry me anymore?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," she replies. "I do want to marry you, I do. But I just don't think that now is the right time... by all means ask him, but I can't guarantee that you'll get the answer you want."

Tom has never felt more conflicted. He knows that what Sybil is saying is right but, at the same time, a part of him wants to stick to the plan and go off to war a happy man. But could he do that? Could he really be so selfish as to give her a fleeting glimpse of happiness only to take it away from her again when he goes to the Front? To have her back at home, worrying about him every second of every day and possibly widowed before the age of twenty?

"I think we were fools to think that this would be so simple," he says quietly as he pulls her into a tight embrace. "But, whatever happens, it's for the best and it will all be worth it in the end."

Sybil buries her head against Tom's chest and sighs wearily. "I hope you're right," she says quietly. "I really do."

**_-xxx-_**

As they so often do, the Bransons have accepted the Crawley's invitation to stay at Downton. For Tom, it's the first time he's been up here in years and has spent much of his afternoon reacquainting himself with Lord Grantham's library. So engrossed is he in his search for one book in particular, that the opening of the door completely startles him and he somehow manages to knock several undoubtedly priceless volumes off the shelf and sends them scattering across the floor.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise that anyone else was in here. Let me help you with those."

Tom looks up from where he's been scrambling around on the floor trying to retrieve his books only to find himself face to face with none other than Sybil Crawley as she kneels down beside him to give him a hand. "That's the one I was looking for," he says with a smile as he takes the book from Sybil's hand. "Thank you."

"The Condition of the Working Class in England," she says, reading the cover aloud. "I can't say that I've read that one."

"Austen and the Bronte sisters more to your taste, my lady?"

"On occasion," Sybil replies. "But what I meant was that I haven't read much Engels. It sounds rather pitiful, actually, but I'm only really properly familiar with the works of Mill."

This, naturally, takes Tom completely by surprise. "Mill? As in John Stuart Mill?"

"Of course," Sybil replies with a smile. "This is strictly between us, but I have the Subjection of Women hidden away in a drawer in my bedroom. If Papa discovered that I was reading what he likes to call silly liberal nonsense then he'd probably want to have me exorcised."

Tom laughs. "Lord Grantham wouldn't approve?"

"Absolutely not," she replies. "He allows the servants to borrow books from here but, secretly, I think he'd prefer them to read nothing but the bible and letters from home. Could you imagine how he'd react to find that his own daughter had been reading such propaganda?"

"But doesn't he make people sign books out?" he asks.

"Yes, but that's why I read them in here with a copy of Sense and Sensibility of Jane Eyre close at hand should anyone walk in."

"Cunning **and** political," Tom teases. "Should I be worried."

Sybil laughs and shakes her head. "I wouldn't think so," she says. "At least not yet. Perhaps when women get the vote though. Once we can help change the world, we might be able to run it."

"And a suffragette too," Tom smiles. "You are full of surprises."

"Surely you agree that women should get the vote?"

Tom nods. "Of course I do," he says. "But it's not all about women and the vote for me when it comes to my politics, nor even freedom for Ireland. It's the gap between the aristocracy and the poor... I don't mean to speak ill of your father because I'm sure that he's a fair and decent employer but mine can be a little... lax. He's a self-made man but only by the good grace of somebody else's fortune and sometimes he forgets that. Why should every man..."

"Or woman."

"Or woman, I'll agree, not be afforded that same opportunity to make something of themselves. If it weren't for my father being in the right place at the right time then, chances are, I'd be in service right now as a chauffeur or a footman in one of Ireland's big houses if I was lucky enough. I wouldn't have had the same formal education that I've had but, with any luck, I'd still know about the world and I'd want to better myself."

"What would you aspire to be?" asks Sybil, feeling genuinely moved by his speech.

Tom doesn't need to give her question much thought before he gives her an answer. "Probably the same as what I aspire to now. I think I'd like to be a writer of some sort, though politics is the ultimate goal. I want to change the world, not idly stand by and abuse my privilege... because I am privileged, I know I am, and it could so very easily have been a completely different story."

"You mean like your brother did?" Their eyes meet then and Sybil suddenly feels awful. "I'm sorry," she apologises. "That was uncalled for and inappropriate."  
"No, you're right," Tom says quietly. "Kieran did abuse his privilege and now he's dead because of it. He was a good, decent, intelligent man when he wasn't drinking or gambling away his future inheritance, but the bright lights of the city corrupted him and he paid the ultimate price."

Sensing his sadness, Sybil realises that she has completely and utterly misjudged this man. He had tried to apologise for what was said by Larry and his cronies at her ball and she hadn't really listened. He is that good and kind man she had hoped that he would be and she makes a mental note to try to rekindle their friendship before he and his family leave for London again.

"As much as I'd love to stay here and talk politics with you all day," Sybil says. "I've had Lynch saddle my horse and I really must be going. I haven't been riding in so very long and I think I should probably try to make the most of it in case Papa sells the horses to the army soon."

"Nimue."

"Beg pardon?"

"Your horse. A grey mare called Nimue... she was the foal you wanted to raise yourself so that you could one day ride. Do you still have her?"

Sybil looks at him, utterly stunned that he can recall such a minute detail. "You remember that?"

Tom nods. "That was one of the last summers I came to Downton."

She smiles at him and nods. "That seems like an age ago now," she tells him. "But, yes, Nimue is my horse now. You should see her, she really is beautiful now that she's fully grown."

"As are you, Lady Sybil."

"You flatter me, Mr Branson," she giggles. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be going but it's been a pleasure talking to you... oh and, Tom."

"Yes?"

"I hope you do go into politics," she adds, just as she's about to step out of the library. "It's a fine ambition."

Once she's gone, Tom runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Ambition or dream?"

**_-xxx-_**

Ted gratefully accepts a whisky from Robert as the two men wait for the ladies, Tom and Matthew to join them in the drawing room before dinner. Of course, as with everyone, the main topic of conversation has been yesterday's outbreak of war.

"Will Matthew go?" he asks, having decided that he rather likes his friend's heir.

Robert sighs. "I don't know," he replies. "I think he wants to. His father was a medic during the South African War and I think he feels as though it's his duty to do so."

"Even with no sign of an heir? Unless, of course, Mary is already pregnant."

"She hasn't said anything," says Robert. "And I'm sure Cora would have told me if she suspected anything. Strallan won't go, not of his own volition at his age, so there shouldn't be anything to interfere with his and Edith's nuptials next month. What about Tom, will he go?"

Ted shakes his head. "No, Tom's more likely to die fighting on the barricades for Ireland's freedom like a revolutionary from a Victor Hugo novel than on the battlefields of Europe for a King or a cause he doesn't believe in."

"He's a republican then?"

"I would have thought that obvious by now," the Irishman replies. "Though he doesn't believe that violence is the answer. I do worry about that boy sometimes... too idealistic for his own good."  
"And what about you? Do you want freedom for Ireland?"  
"Can't say I've really thought about it," Ted says, sipping at his drink. "If it weren't for the British in Ireland, I wouldn't be sitting here sharing a drink with a fine gentleman such as yourself. Unless it involves trading laws, politics doesn't really interest me. But, back to the matter in hand, Tom won't go to war and so he and Sybil will still marry. As I said, he's too much of a romantic revolutionary..."

**_-xxx-_**

Although he adores the peace and tranquillity of the countryside, another dinner in white tie in the oppressive summer heat is enough to make Tom yearn for London, where the family wouldn't dress for dinner unless they were entertaining.

Quickly depositing his book back in the library having finished it already (he doesn't think he's ever read quite so quickly as he does when he's here, for there's still so much that he wants to get through), he goes in search of the other men and a drink to parch his thirst. Just as he's about to enter the drawing room though, he pauses at the door and listens in on the conversation.

"_Tom won't go to war and so he and Sybil will still marry. As I said, he's too much of a romantic revolutionary_..."

He and Sybil? Marriage? What on earth were they talking about? He knows that it's wrong to eavesdrop on other people's conversations and he knows that it's best just to confront his father rather than to let it go and have the old man deny it later. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the room and the two men inside abruptly stop their conversation.

"How many times, father?" he sighs. "I'm a socialist, not a revolutionary. And what's this about me marrying Lady Sybil?"


	5. Love and Marriage

_**A bit of a poor response to the last chapter, but not to worry - I know that there are people reading this story and I'm glad that you continue to do so. I know how it can be though, you read a chapter on the go or whatever and then just never get round to reviewing, I'm so incredibly guilty of doing that myself and I'm not a writer who lives for reviews (though they are nice). Thank you to everyone who nominated me in the last lot of Highclere Awards - of my eight nominations, my Modern!AU Once Upon a December won in the writing technique category (if you haven't read it, go check it out if you wish, it's a bit Christmassy but you might need a healthy dose of fluff during this fic). Just a quick heads up, I am thinking about changing my pen name on here to match that of my Tumblr fic blog 'teaattheabbey' (that's Tea at the Abbey) but I'm not sure if I'm ready to let Peach go yet. Anyway, on with the show! Enjoy and let me know what you think, if you have the time :) x**_

* * *

"I won't do it," he snaps. "I won't marry her. It's not right... surely she deserves better than this even if I don't?"

"But this is what's best for our families," says Edward, still trying and failing to make his son see the logic behind the arrangement.

"I don't love her."

Ted waves his hand dismissively. "Now isn't the time for your soppy poetry," he says. "You'll grow fond of each other in time, marriage has a habit of doing that."

"But you and Ma..."

"That was a different time and a different place. Things are different now and you **will** marry her or no longer will you look upon me as your father."

Tom is momentarily stunned and looks over his father's shoulder at Robert, the Englishman being equally shocked by this sudden turn of events.

"Now, come on old chap," he says. "There's no need to say things that you might come to regret."

"I mean it. The boy's been nothing but a disappointment to me since his brother died. I need an heir that I can trust and this marriage will either make him a bit more responsible or it will give me a grandson that I can raise properly to take my place..."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Tom interrupts, running a hand through his hair and begins pacing the room. "And what about you? What are you getting out of this besides an undoubtedly broken hearted daughter?"

"Downton lies in ruin," Robert tells him. "Your father has agreed to help me financially."

"So this is a marriage of convenience?" he asks, fighting back his tears. Never before in his life has Tom ever felt quite so betrayed or heartbroken - and for it to come from a member of his own family feels like salt is being rubbed into his wounds. "Might I remind you, **Father**, that I'm not the one drinking and gambling away your precious fortune. You talk of me being irresponsible, yet it was your precious son and heir gallivanting all over the place and who ended up dead in a ditch. If he and Mam could see this then they'd be spinning in their graves!"

"Tom," Robert says softly, not quite knowing what to do to calm the boy down.

"Forgive me, Lord Grantham," says Tom with a bow of his head, a look of unbridled anger across his otherwise handsome features. "I don't think I'll be joining you for dinner, I'm suddenly feeling rather unwell."

With that, he storms out of the room only to clatter straight into his sister. "Are you alright?" she asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Grand," he replies bitterly. "Absolutely bloody grand."

**_-xxx-_**

He can't even bear to look at Sybil the following morning and so he doesn't bother with breakfast, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach after having missed dinner the previous evening. Frustrated beyond belief, he manages to borrow a pair of riding boots and heads down to the stables - he hasn't been on a horse in the longest time, but he remembers that rush of adrenaline he used to get galloping across an open field, man and beast as one against the elements. What should have been a way of forgetting about his troubles only ends up making them worse when he sees the one person he's been trying to avoid feeding sugar lumps stolen from the breakfast table to a young foal. He leans against one of the empty stalls, content just to watch her for a moment - she seems so at ease here, outdoors and among nature, and he can't imagine that there are many other highborn ladies who could be found kneeling down in the hay and god knows what else. The foal nuzzles at her arm and he can't help but smile as she laughs.

"I haven't got any more," Sybil says, scratching the creature's nose. "Which is probably a good thing because you're starting to get spoiled."

Tom laughs a little louder then and, for the first time, she notices that she isn't alone. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'll leave you."

"No, don't go," Sybil tells him, running her fingers through the foal's short black mane. "Come and say hello."

Deciding to indulge her, Tom moves to kneel down beside her and offers out his palm to the horse who, after sniffing around a bit, shows him just as much affection as he had to Sybil. "Friendly little thing, aren't you?"

Sybil laughs. "I think he's just trying to find out if you have any food."

"Well he's out of luck, I haven't got anything."

"That's a shame," replies Sybil. "He won't like you for very much longer then."

"_And nor will you once you know what our fathers have planned for us_," Tom thinks to himself. He knows that he should tell her, saving her the pain of having to find it out the way he did or from a third party but he just can't bring himself to do it. She's so happy and carefree that he just hasn't got the heart to crush her soul. Perhaps he'll do it later, arrange for them to meet somewhere where they can have a proper talk and decide what they're going to do. She's so nice and so beautiful that she's probably already got a thousand suitors lining up to court her already and it just seems so cruel to take that chance away from her, to let her live her own life and make her own choices. He'd lay awake last night thinking about his own situation, about Bronagh... dear, sweet Bronagh. What was he going to do? How on earth will he explain it to her? Perhaps they could just elope and save them all a lifetime of misery - he and Bronagh would be happily married and Sybil would be free to follow her own heart. Yes, that's it, that's exactly what they'll do... they'll elope.

"So," he says at last, breaking the silence between them. "Does he have a name yet?"

Sybil shakes her head. "No, none of us have managed to find the right one yet."

"How about Tristan."

"Tristan?"

"It's just a suggestion," says Tom. "I've noticed that your family has something of a habit for naming your animals after figures from mythology. Your father's dog is called pharaoh, your horse is Nimue and I'm sure there are many others. Do you not know the story of Tristan and Iseult?"

Sybil shakes her head. "I've heard of it, but there are so many different versions that I'm not sure which one to read."

"Well the one I was brought up with was that Iseult was the daughter of an Irish king and betrothed to King Mark of Cornwall who sent his nephew, Tristan, across the sea to retrieve his bride. Iseult's mother gave to her handmaiden a love potion which her daughter would drink on her wedding night. Sometime during the voyage though, Tristan and Iseult accidentally drank it themselves and they fell in love."

"So she didn't marry the Cornish king?"

"No, she did," says Tom. "But she continued to love Tristan and their affair continued long into her marriage. Her husband eventually found out and banished his nephew to France where he fell in love with another Iseult because she reminded him so much of his beloved Irish princess. He married her, but never consummated the marriage because of his love for the **true **Iseult. He fell ill and sent for her as he believed that she could heal him. If she agreed to come then the sails of the ship bringing her to Brittany would be white and black if she did not. His wife lied to him and said that the sails were black, causing Tristan to die of grief. When she learnt of his passing, Iseult also died from a broken heart."

"How tragic," says Sybil. "Though I suppose it's true you can't help who you fall in love with."

Tom nods, completely agreeing with her. "There's much debate as to whether or not the influences of the potion meant that they truly were in love, but some versions of the legend say that it wore off and they chose to continue as lovers of their own free will. Regardless of which is true, I think I'd have to agree with you."

"Tom," she says quietly, smiling to herself as the foal decides that he's tired and lies down to sleep. "Are we friends again?"

"Of course we are," he says, though he somewhat despises himself for saying so - how can he possibly call himself her friend when he knows the truth about their situation.

"Good, because I have a secret and I have to tell someone before I burst. Do you know of Tom Belasis?"

"The name sounds familiar. Why?"

"Because... Oh, you must promise not to tell anybody. This is strictly between you and I."

"I promise."

"He's coming up to the house to ask Papa for his blessing... he wants to marry me."

Tom's heart actually shatters for her then and he loses what little courage he had to come clean and completely bottles it. He can't take away her happiness, not now... no, it has to come from her father. This is his mess and he should be the one to deal with it...

But then that just makes Tom feel even worse about himself.

"Well... congratulations," he says with a rather forced smile. "I hope you're very happy together." He then realises that perhaps this is a good thing - if Robert can see how serious the Belasis boy is about marrying his youngest daughter then maybe, just maybe, he'll convince his own father that their deal is off and there will be no need to further their arrangement. It's a long shot, but it might just work.

Sybil sighs. "I can't see him giving his permission though," she says almost sadly. "Tom wants to go and enlist as soon as possible. I fear that Papa will just see it as us being stupidly romantic when, truth be told, we've loved each other since we were children."

"You don't know unless you try," Tom smiles, placing a reassuring hand on her arm.

"You're right," replies Sybil. "There's no harm in asking. If not, then we'll just have to wait until after the war or until I turn twenty-one, whichever comes first."

"Don't you believe that it'll be over by Christmas like they're all saying."

"Not for a single second," she replies, taking his hand as he helps her to her feet. "Well, I'd better be going. I'm having tea with granny and she'd never forgive me if I turned up smelling of horses."

"You and I always seem to need to be somewhere whenever we end up talking. Perhaps one day we'll be able to sit down and have a proper conversation for once."

"Perhaps we will," Sybil smiles. "I'd like that, actually. Oh and, by the way, if you're going riding then I think you'd do well with Icarus. He's the brother to Papa's horse and he's good with strange riders... not that you're strange but... well, he's a good horse."

"As long as we don't ride too close to the sun, I think we'll be fine," Tom smiles. Saying that though, with his latest plan, he already feels like he's too close to the sun and there's every chance that he's going to get burnt - this afternoon, he'll go down to the village and send a telegram to Bronagh back in London asking her to meet him in Liverpool two days from now. There, they'll take the ferry to Dublin where they can be married within the month.

He knows it's drastic and once it's done then there's no going back...

But that's exactly what he wants.

**_-xxx-_**

As always, Tom seeks solitude in the library that afternoon - books have always been his way of escaping from one world and into another where nothing bad can ever happen to him or hurt him. It's been this way since he was a small boy, perhaps not long after his mother died, but now he's mostly swapped novels for philosophy and history in an attempt to understand this world that can often be so cruel. Lost in the endless volumes as he looks for inspiration, he barely notices the presence of his would-be-father-in-law until the Earl's voice calls out softly to him.

"I thought I'd find you in here."

"You have a wonderful library," he says quietly. "I like to make the most of it whenever I'm up here."

"Tom, I was wondering if you and I could have a talk about what happened last night?"

He turns to the older man and nods, following him across the room where he sits down opposite him. "I'm sorry if I seemed rude in storming out last night," says Tom. "But I was just in shock and I have a tendency to get angry in those situations."

"It's quite alright," replies Robert. "I'll be honest with you, at first, your father and I were on the same page when it came to this proposed marriage between you and Sybil but then Cora, as she so often seems to do, made me see sense and I agreed with her that neither of you should be forced into this if it wasn't what you wanted. Obviously, Ted doesn't quite see it like that."

"Your daughter is beautiful," says Tom quietly. "Inside and out. She has the kindest heart of anyone I've ever met and she makes me smile. She's intelligent and wants to learn, but she could never be more to me than just a very dear friend. The one thing Father did get right is that I'm too much of a romantic to marry for anything other than love."

"Then that's another thing you and Sybil have in common," Robert replies, his lips curling up into the faintest hint of a smile. "I do hope to see you at Downton more, as a son-in-law or not."

"Thank you," Tom replies sincerely. "I'd like that. Though I will talk to her and think about it."

The last part is a lie, though he would very much like the former indeed. After all he's going to need all the allies he can get once he's gone through with his clandestine marriage.

**_-xxx-_**

Sybil stares out of her bedroom window as Gwen fastens up the back of her dress ready for tea with her grandmother, having bathed and finally managed to rid her hair of the pungent smell of the stables. She squints slightly as she watches the figure of a man retreating back down the driveway, wondering who it could be for a moment until a hopeful thought crosses her mind.

"Gwen, it's him," she says excitably. "It's most definitely him."

"Mr Belasis, milady?"

Sybil nods. "I think so," she replies. "Do you think he's spoken to Papa already?"

Gwen smiles. "I hope so," says the maid. "You of all people deserve to be happy. You've a kind heart, milady, and an awful lot of love to give. Mr Belasis is certainly a very lucky man."

Sybil can't help but blush at her friend's compliment. That's exactly what she and Gwen are, friends, or at least she hopes so as, rather surprisingly, she doesn't have very many others. Yes, there are countless young ladies and a few gentlemen who move within her social circle, but they are merely acquaintances for she only ever really sees them in London during the season and even then she rarely finds herself stimulated by their company - the conversation is dry and while talking about the latest fashions and who is set to marry whom is all very well and good for a little while, it soon gets rather boring in Sybil's opinion and she finds herself shunned when she tries to steer discussion towards more important topics like politics and current affairs. "And what about you? Do you ever think about marriage and such?"

"Sometimes," Gwen replies. "Though I don't understand how we're supposed to find husbands if we're never allowed to see any men."

Sybil laughs. "There are ways and means of achieving everything," she says. "Have you ever been in love?"

"I... I'm not sure," says Gwen. "There were a boy what lived on the farm next to ours when I was little. We grew up together an' I were always fond of him. The night before I came here, he kissed me and told me that he'd always loved me. I suppose I could have stayed and become a farmer's wife, but I didn't."

"And where is he now, do you think?"

"Probably gone off to fight like most other boys. They all want an adventure and this is the only way they'll get it. It don't take much to know that most of them won't be coming back."

"I think you're right," says Sybil sadly, glancing out of the window again only to see that the figure she presumed to be Tom having vanished. "It's a terrible tragedy and it's barely begun."

**_-xxx-_**

Following his heart-to-heart with Robert in the library, Tom manages to slip out of the Abbey unnoticed and down to the telegraph office in the village. There are some of the inhabitants of Downton whom he has come to know quite well since his first and more frequent visits as a young boy and so he keeps his cap down low in an attempt to appear inconspicuous and unrecognisable. He knows it's unlikely that his father will find out what he's been up to, but the man seems to have spies everywhere and so it wouldn't surprise him if Ted did end up learning of his son's little excursion.

Handing over his money and the message he wishes to send, he says a silent prayer that Bronagh receives it before it's too late.

MEET ME IN LIVERPOOL THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW STOP

WE LEAVE FOR IRELAND AS SOON AS POSSIBLE

**_-xxx-_**

Sybil smiles brightly at the old butler, just as she always does whenever he greets her at the front door whenever she returns home.

"Good afternoon, my lady," he replies in response and with a slight bow of his head. "I trust you had a pleasant afternoon."

"I did," she says. "Have you seen Papa around at all?"

"I believe his Lordship is in the library," Carson tells her. "He was in a meeting but Mr Murray left not long ago. Oh and this came for you earlier, my lady." He hands her an envelope addressed to her in a hand that Sybil doesn't think that she recognises.

"Thank you, Carson," she says, allowing him to help her out of her coat before going in search of her father. "Papa?" she calls out upon entering the library, the room being so vast that sometimes it's hard to spot where a person may be lurking.

"Sybil, is that you?"

"It is," she says. "Mary said that you wanted to see me once I got back."

Robert nods and gets up from his chair to greet his daughter once she's found him at last. "I did. Have you spoken with Tom at all?"

Sybil's heart leaps - this could very well be it, everything she's been hoping and wishing for for months. Her beau has spoken with her father and she's about to discover her fate. "I have," she says.

"And what do you think?" he asks. "Do you accept this proposal?"

In an unexpected move (and something which she hasn't done since she was a small girl) Sybil flings her arms around her father's neck and hugs him tightly. "Oh Papa, yes," she says excitably, struggling to contain her tears of joy. "Yes I do."

Robert pulls back and stares at her in disbelief. "Oh my darling girl," he says. "I had hoped you would say that. Though, are you absolutely certain this is what you want? You're eighteen years old and, yes, there may be a war, but there really is no hurry."

"Papa, I love him," she admits, finally feeling relieved to have the freedom to say it aloud. "He respects me and values my opinions. He's my best friend and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him."

"All I've ever wanted is to see my girls happy and all three of you married in a single season to good men is more than I could have hoped for."

Sybil kisses her father's cheek. "I love you, Papa," she says. "So very much and you've made me incredibly happy."

With that, his youngest daughter excuses herself to go and change for dinner, leaving Robert alone to think about just how surprisingly well she's taken the news.

With a spring in her step as she heads upstairs to her bedroom and to share recent events with Gwen, she tears open the envelope that Carson had given her. The short note inside has clearly been written in a rush and the handwriting is shaky and almost scrawled across the page - it's not the sender's usual, immaculate script that she has become so familiar with and that immediately raises cause for concern. She stops dead in her tracks half way up the stairs as she reads it for a second time and then a third, just to make sure that she's not imagining things and trying to make sense of it all.

_My dearest Sybil, _

_I had hoped that I would be able to speak with you in person but, alas __that is not to be and so _

_I wrote this before I came up to the Abbey if that were to be the case._

_My darling, I have enlisted in the army and they're sending me off to fight already - _

_well, not as such, but I leave for training in Richmond this afternoon and then it will be straight on to France or Belgium, nothing is quite certain yet. _

_I love you with everything that I am and I pray that I will live to see__your beautiful face again someday - _

_as you walk down the aisle toward me on your father's __arm, as you hold our first child in your own _

_and every morning when I wake beside you._

_These are the thoughts that will get me through whatever lies waiting across the sea and __it is you that I fight for. _

_You and our future together._

_I wish nothing more than to have seen you one last time before I left. I will be on __the six o'clock train from Downton _

_should you be able to come and see me off __to war a happy man. _

_If not, then just know that I love you and that I'll come __home soon._

_Yours always, _

_Tom._

As Sybil finishes reading the letter again, the clock in the hallway begins to chime.

Six o'clock.

She's missed him.

He's gone.

Though, if he'd already spoken with her father, why would Carson have the letter? Surely Tom would have given it to Papa instead?

Unless...

She races back down the stairs and into the library, relieved to see that her father hasn't yet left.

"Papa, when you asked if I had spoken with Tom, you did mean Tom Belasis, didn't you?"

Robert furrows his brow. "Tom Belasis? Why would I have asked you about him? I haven't seen the boy since the garden party and even then I barely managed to say two words to him."

Sybil has never been more confused. "So he hasn't come to ask for your blessing or your permission to ask me to marry him?"

Now it's the Earl's turn to look befuddled. "No, he's done nothing of the sort," he replies. "You're to marry Tom Branson, are you not?"

Sybil's jaw drops...

What on earth is going on?

**_-xxx- _**

Meanwhile, in London, a telegram arrives in the evening post as the staff sit down to their evening meal.

"For you, Miss Connelly," says the butler, handing the envelope to the young governess.

"Thank you, Mr Evans," she replies, taking it from him and feeling all eyes upon her as she tears it open.

"What is it?" Ivy the kitchen maid asks when she gasps upon reading what it says.

Bronagh's hands are shaking as she reads it again and again - much like Sybil several hundred miles to the North, she can't believe what she's seeing and has to read it several times before the words begin to sink in.

"It's from Mr Branson senior," she stutters. "I... I've been dismissed with immediate effect."


	6. The Flaw in the Plan

_**WOW, thank you so much for the amazing response to the last chapter - I'm completely blown away by it and I'm sorry I haven't managed to get back to you or updated sooner but it's just been a hectic few days what with me moving back home from uni and trying to get myself sorted. I was tempted to continue this chapter even further, but I don't think it needed it in the end. Enjoy and please let me know what you think, it made my day last time :) x**_

* * *

Shocked beyond belief at what her father has told her, Sybil retreats up to her bedroom, feeling an overwhelming need to be alone with her thoughts. She can't believe that she's to marry Tom Branson of all people - yes she cares for him, very dearly in fact, but how could she possibly hope for a marriage based on anything other than the deepest and truest of loves? She doesn't know which hurts more - the fact that she's been betrayed by her family and her friend, or the fact that her beau has gone off to war without saying a proper goodbye.

Walking past Mary and Matthew's bedroom, she hears raised voices coming from within. Not really one for eavesdropping, Sybil continues forward to her own room but stops dead in her tracks when she's startled by the sound of a door behind her being opened and then violently slammed shut again.

"How much did you hear?"

Sybil turns to see an incredibly emotional looking Mary standing there with red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks - she looks utterly defeated and a shadow of that strong and defiant woman everyone is so used to seeing. "Nothing," she replies. "Just shouting."

Striding towards her yet still somehow managing to remain graceful, Mary grabs hold of her sister's hand and practically drags her down the hall to her bedroom. Only when the door is closed firmly behind them does Mary completely break down and it's enough to make Sybil momentarily forget about her own problems. It kills her to see her sister like this and so she's thankful that this is a rare occurrence - but then that means that something truly awful must have happened to reduce her to such a state.

"I can't believe he's actually done it," she manages to choke out through her sobs. "He's gone and enlisted."

"Matthew?"

Mary nods. "We'd agreed to talk about it and that he wouldn't make any rash decisions," she says. "But he's gone and bloody well done it!"

It's rare for something to make Mary curse and so Sybil is momentarily taken aback. "But why would he go when he has so much to live for?" she asks as she guides her sister over towards the bed, though she probably knows that she must sound incredibly naive.

Mary shakes her head. "He feels as though it's his duty," she says, wiping away her tears with her handkerchief. "His father served in South Africa as a medic and all the Earls and future Earls of Grantham have done so before him. I just hate that he's going now when everything still remains so uncertain."  
Sybil looks at her sister sympathetically, catching her subtle nod to her lack of pregnancy despite them only having been married a few months. She isn't sure of whether or not Mary is aware of the fact that Sybil knows of her worries that the couple are finding it difficult to conceive a baby, but the youngest of the Crawley sisters is convinced that their time will come and that, when it does, her sister and Matthew will be the most wonderful parents.

"I know that you may not believe it," she says quietly, wrapping her arm around Mary's shoulders. "But I think I understand a little about how you feel." Predictably, her sister looks at her quizzically and so Sybil hands her the letter she received from Tom Belasis.

"I... I had no idea that there was anything going on between the two of you," Mary says once she's finished reading and given Sybil the chance to tell the whole story, right from the very beginning. "But, now that you've said as much, I don't know how none of us saw it sooner."

Sybil's lips curl up into a slight smile. "We got very good at hiding," she says. "Though now I know that it would just have been far easier for us to reveal our intentions sooner."

Mary nods. "Hindsight is such a wonderful thing," she replies. "So what will you do about Tom Branson?"

Sybil sighs. "I don't know," she says. "I know that I should marry him, and that it's my... duty... to do so but I love Tom Belasis and surely that should be the foundation for marriage?"

"Sybil, darling, look at me," says Mary, taking hold of her sister's hands in her own. "Marriage should never be a duty. When I was engaged to Patrick, I thought that it had to be and that was just the way it was for women like me... for women like us. Then I met Matthew and... well, I don't need to tell you of all people that it wasn't exactly love at first sight but, in the end, it was and still is love and, because of that, our marriage is far from a duty."

Sybil smiles genuinely this time - Mary seldom speaks so candidly about matters of the heart and so it's nice to finally hear her say her feelings for her husband aloud. "So what do you think I should do?"

"Whatever you think is for the best," her sister replies. "Nobody else can nor should they make this decision for you."

Sybil nods. "You're right," she says. "Though what are you going to do about Matthew?"

Mary sighs. "He and I like a good argument," she says. "I'll make him listen to what I have to say and then, hopefully, he'll come to his senses."

"What is it Granny says?" asks Sybil. "We are Crawley women and it's in our blood to take all of this in our stride."

**_-xxx-_**

He was sure that he'd left it at the bottom of the stack of books he'd taken from the library - there was no way that anyone could have taken it, for what would they want with the battered old leather bound notebook and the contents scribbled down within it and so the only other possible explanation was that he was beginning to go mad. The fresh country air had finally addled his brain so much so that he was starting to imagine things and it was probably a good thing that he was leaving soon. Tom knows that he shouldn't feel quite so angry and frustrated at the loss of this particular book but, to him, it holds great sentimental value. He shoves the half packed suitcase underneath his bed at the sound of a knock on the door, but doesn't have time to reach for his shirt before he's given his visitor permission to enter before they've done exactly that.

"How long have you known?" and angry voice asks him as the door slams shut - not an emotion he would ever have thought dear sweet Sybil Crawley to be able to display.

"I... erm... about what?"

"Oh don't try and act all innocent," she says bitterly. "You know exactly what I'm talking about... how long have you known that you and I are to marry?"

Tom looks straight into her eyes, trying to decipher whether or not it's him she despises right now or their fathers. "Only since last night," he says calmly. "I've been trying to find a way to tell you ever since."

Sybil furrows her brow. "So this morning, in the stables, when I shared my secret with you, you already knew that you and I were engaged?"

"Yes," he replies, wincing when he realises just how much of a complete bastard he must be coming across right now. "And we're not engaged. Not if we don't want to be."

"What little choice do we have?!" she exclaims, flailing her arms around a bit. "And we are if your father has his way."

"Which he won't," replies Tom. "I'm going to fix it, Sybil. I promise."

"How?"

"I can't say... but I will."

She narrows her eyes at him, wondering whether or not she should trust him after what feels like such a colossal betrayal. "You better had," she says. "Because this would never work."

"Why not?"

"Because I thought you were different," she sneers. "And it turns out that you're just the same as the rest of them."

He knows that by 'them' she means Larry Grey and his cohort - the men whom she had been forced to surround herself with during her season who made crude comments about her at her ball, who valued women as no more than trophies and wives only as a means of continuing their bloodline - and before he has chance to protest and tell her she's wrong, she leaves with all the fury of a great typhoon, slamming the door so forcefully behind her that it makes the vase on top of the chest of drawers shake.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself down, she clenches and unclenches her gloved fists and only then does she realise that he hadn't been wearing a shirt. A deep blush creeps up her neck and to her cheeks and she hoped she can manage to do something about it before going down to dinner (if not, then she'll just have to blame the heat) - she's never seen a man in such a state of undress before, not even her own beau. He's a handsome man, she'll give him that, but he had befriended her and concealed his lies by making her feel good and happy around him, and that was exactly what made him just like the others (only none of them had actually been engaged to her without her knowledge and had just been trying to steal kisses or something more in the darkened corners of a Belgravia ballroom, only for them never to so much give her the time of day once she had point blank refused them). He said that he would rectify this situation that they had found themselves in and yet, despite everything, she finds herself wanting to trust him again.

**_-xxx-_**

Thankfully, nobody had decided to comment on the palpable tension between Sybil and Tom and the pair had managed to successfully avoid each other when it wasn't required for them to be in the same room. The following day drags far too much for Tom's liking and he finds himself continually checking his pocket watch or the nearest clock, constantly fidgeting and feeling as though he's treading on eggshells and that the slightest nervous tick is going to have somebody onto the fact that he's up to something. At last, dinner ends, the men share a brandy and a cigar and he's able to excuse himself, feigning exhaustion from the long ride he'd taken with Matthew earlier that afternoon when the older man had asked if he would like to accompany him to inspect some of the old tenant farms to the north of the estate. Órlaith too had gone up to bed early and he decides to pop in on her before he too turns in for the night...

After all, it might be the last time he sees her.

His sister is piling her long hair up onto the top of her head when he enters her room, twisting and pulling it every which way as she tries to copy the style depicted in the magazine lying on the dressing table beside her.

"What are you doing?" he chuckles, loving the way she sticks out her tongue as she concentrates, just as she always has done since she was a little girl.

Órlaith sighs and releases her hold on her hair, letting the blonde waves tumble down her back. "Now that I can start wearing my hair up, I thought I'd have a look at the latest styles," she says. "Do you think I'll ever be as beautiful as Lady Mary?" she asks after a moment of thought.

"No," Tom replies with a shake of his head as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of her bed. "You'll be even more beautiful."

Órlaith laughs. "You have to say that," she laughs. "You're my brother."

Tom smiles and runs a hand through his own hair. "Give it a year or so and I'll be fighting off suitors with sticks."

"Do you think father would let me do the season?" she asks hopefully. "I'm not sure how welcome I'd be, being the Irish granddaughter of a tenant farmer and all, but I've heard so many wonderful things and..."

"Oh Órlaith," Tom sighs. "It's not where you come from that matters, but where you're going, and you, a stór, are going straight to the top."

"Will you take me, if he won't allow it?"

Tom's heart sinks - he's not even sure that he'll be allowed within a hundred miles of his family after tomorrow, but Órlaith's first season is four years away and an awful lot can happen between then and now. "We'll see," he says. "For only God knows what tomorrow will bring."

Órlaith looks at him quizzically, slightly perplexed by her brother's words but knowing that now isn't the time to push him. "I love you, Tommy," she says quietly, using the childhood nickname than none bar his mother and siblings had ever called him by. "And I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."

He swallows the lump in his throat and, rising to his feet, he kisses the top of his sister's head affectionately. She's growing so much every day and he fears that, the next time he sees her, she might be unrecognisable. "I love you too," he replies. "And you are already beautiful... so beautiful. You look just like Mam."

Órlaith smiles tearfully at him - she never knew Aileen, but she misses her all the time. "Do you think so?"

"I know so," he says. "Now go to bed and I'll see you soon."

**_-xxx-_**

Tom is up before the servants the following morning, reaching for his now fully packed suitcase and his coat before leaving his room and creeping down the stairs. He looks up as he reaches the bottom, taking in the opulence of Downton's grand halls - the place isn't his home, but it holds some fond memories and he's only ever been made to feel welcome whenever he's visited. Like a ghost in the night, he slips out of the front door and out into the night. Little does he know, somebody else is also awake and watching him out of their bedroom window. Truth be told, Sybil as barely slept these past few days and has resorted to pacing up and down her room in an attempt to clear her mind and wear herself out.

She had no idea what Tom had meant when he said that he would put all of this right, but never once would she have expected the coward to run.

**_-xxx-_**

He takes the first train to York and then on to Liverpool, staring blankly out of the window as he watches the English countryside roll past - the lush green hills and fields give way to the cities of Leeds, Huddersfield and Manchester on the other side of the Pennines, the grimy industrial towns of the north west, Warrington and Widnes and the suburbs of Liverpool before finally arriving at his destination as the train pulls into Lime Street station. Seeing as how he's here earlier than planned, he takes the walk through the city centre and down to the Pier Head at a leisurely pace. Tom gazes out towards the horizon, the sunlight finally beginning to break through the clouds and giving him a clear view of the Mersey estuary and the Irish Sea beyond - soon he'll be heading west towards his homeland with his bride-to-be by his side. He's written to Sybil, Órlaith and his father explaining what he's done and has the letters ready to post before they board the ferry. Just as he's about to make his way over to the ticket office, he spots an familiar and unwelcome figure standing several feet in front of him.

His father.

"She's not coming."

Tom's heart begins to race and he feels physically sick. "Who isn't? Órlaith?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Ted says, thrusting his son's journal forcefully against his chest. "I know all about your sordid little affair with the governess... you might want to be careful not to leave that thing lying around in future."

So that was where the book had gone - Ted had never understood Tom's need to document his every thought and movement, but he does have to admit that it's been a useful way of keeping track of what the boy is up to. He's known about what had been going on between his son and Bronagh for months, but this plan of escape had been exactly the ammunition he had needed to blow the whole thing apart.

"Where is she?"

"The girl? Gone," his father replies nonchalantly as he lights up a cigarette. "I dismissed her a couple of days ago. Your sister is too old for a governess now and we can't afford any... distractions. Not if you're to marry Sybil."

"I am **not** marrying Sybil," Tom growls. "And she doesn't want to marry me either and the sooner everyone realises that the better." He wants to leave, but Órlaith is the only reason why he'll stay.

"I've sent your sister back to London," his father says, having seemingly chosen not to hear anything that Tom has just said. "And that's exactly where we're going."

Tom sighs, admitting defeat... well, at least for now. This isn't the end, far from it in fact, and he will track Bronagh down and make good on his promises both to her and to Sybil.

"Fine," he says. "But first I need to send a telegram."

**_-xxx-_**

A couple of hours later, Sybil receives that very telegram. It's short, but those five words tell her everything she needs to know and she feels her heart break just that little bit more.

I'M SORRY STOP I TRIED


	7. A Tale of Two Toms

_**I had hoped to get this chapter out much sooner, but this past week or so has been chaos - I've moved back home after finishing Uni and I've had a couple of job interviews so it's been an awful lot of running around. Plus, this heat just makes it really hard to concentrate. I know the pace of this story may seem a little bit slow, but it will pick up soon and we have another six or so years to cover (I'm taking it up to 1920-ish) so there's an awful lot more to come. A lot of you are asking what happened to Bronagh - well, all I will say is that she WILL be coming back so we haven't seen the last of her. Enjoy and let me know what you think, it really makes my day when you take time out of yours just to pass comment :) x**_

* * *

The rest of August passes in a somewhat uneventful blur, most of the inhabitants of the Abbey too busy preparing for Edith's upcoming nuptials to pay much attention to anything or anyone else and it's nothing really out of the ordinary for Sybil to spend large amounts of time alone but, if they looked a little closer, they would quite clearly have seen that she wasn't herself. In fact, she was far from it. Her smiles seem forced and she doesn't laugh anywhere as much as she used to, her own impending marriage playing on her mind almost constantly. She's heard very little from either of the Tom's - Branson had sent her a very long, almost poetic letter of apology several days after his disappearance and had promised to tell her everything once he returned for her sister's wedding, and Belasis had been thrown head first into his training and would be posted out to the Front sometime in the very imminent future. At least though, through each of their own experiences of having a loved one gone off to war, she and Mary have become closer than they ever have before and their solidarity is unparalleled. They confide in each other about their worries and fears, and having that weight lifted from their shoulders makes it easier for them to be happy for their other sister, who seems to be living in a bubble of flowers and place settings, wine selections and dress fittings - good for her, they think, for nobody should have to endure what they are going through.

Though, up and down the country, thousands or women like them already are.

**_-xxx-_**

Two days before the wedding, the family is pleasantly surprised when Matthew makes and unexpected return to Yorkshire, having been granted some brief leave between finishing his training and departing for France. He regales them with tales of his time away and the band of men who have become his brothers in arms, though never once mentioning just exactly what it is that they were being taught to do. He hadn't wanted his return to overshadow Edith's moment in the spotlight, but she had told him not to be silly and how her wedding would be perfect now that her family were all back together again, for however brief a time that may be.

Later that night, Mary watches her husband in the mirror as she brushes out her hair having dispensed with Anna's help after deciding that the two of them needed to spend as much time alone as possible in the numbered days that they have together. He lips curl up into a smile as she studies him - he's propped up against the pillows, his grip on the book in his hands slackening as he struggles to stay awake. Usually, she's asleep before he is and so she rarely gets to see him in moments like this and so she treasures every second.

"It's rude to stare," he mumbles with a smirk.

Mary laughs. "I've started to become used to having the bed to myself again, it's strange seeing you in it."

Matthew opens and eye and quirks one dark blonde brow at her. "Don't tease me."

"I have missed you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Well I've missed you too, madly," he replies. "So I'm not worried... though is it wrong of me to say that I am a little bit worried about Sybil?"

Mary sighs and sets down her brush. "No, not at all," she says. "She's not been herself lately."

"I've noticed. Is the situation no closer to being resolved?"  
His wife shakes her head. "No, not yet," she replies. "And with each day that passes, I become more worried that she's going to have her heart broken and become a shell of her former self."

"I saw him you know, Tom Belasis," says Matthew. "It was in Manchester a couple of days ago. I remember the boy but now he's... different somehow."

"In what way?"

Matthew shakes his head. "I don't know exactly, I couldn't put my finger on it," he replies. "I was having dinner with some old friends at one of their clubs and he was there with his father. They're coming to the wedding."

"That's good," Mary smiles. "Sybil will like that."

"Mary," he says quietly after a moment of silence. "It may sound incredibly selfish of me but, as much as I want to talk about how everyone is doing, I just want to forget about them all... just for tonight. I just want it to be about us."

Mary smiles back at him. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

"Good. Now come here and kiss me."

She's only too happy to oblige him.

**_-xxx-_**

Sybil can't stop smiling throughout Edith's wedding - it was such a beautiful day and she couldn't recall ever seeing her sister look so radiant before. It's pleasant weather for the time of year, and the guests are all milling around the grounds of the Abbey, much as they had done just over a month earlier when the world as they knew it had begun to change. She catches sight of Lord and Lady Darsbury and flashes a charming smile in their direction.

"Sybil," says the Viscount with a smile and offers her another glass of champagne he's just taken from the tray of a passing footman. "My dear, how are you?"

"Wonderful," she replies, genuinely meaning it for the first time in so very long. "It's been such a lovely day and I'm so happy for Edith."

Lady Darsbury nods her head in agreement. "Yes, a rather unusual match," she says. "But well suited nonetheless. Just you to go now... I'm sure there are plenty of charming young men lining up to try and prove themselves worthy."

Sybil knows that Lady Darsbury means well in her observation, but she can't help but force a smile. The Viscountess is unaware of her current predicament and the role her son has to play in that... speaking of which, she can't recall seeing Tom around anywhere. "And how is Mr Belasis getting along?" she asks, innocently enough. "He was coming towards the end of his training the last I heard, though my brother-in-law mentioned that he saw the two of you together in Manchester, Lord Darsbury, and that he was going to be accompanying you today."

The Darsbury's exchange a nervous glance and Lord Darsbury quickly sees off the last of his champagne whilst letting his wife do the talking. "He... he's ill," she replies somewhat abruptly. "Terrible shame and I have sent his apologies to your parents, but hopefully he'll be back on his feet again soon."

"Oh," says Sybil, trying to hide her evident disappointment. "That's a shame, though I do hope he gets better soon... I've very much missed his company."

**_-xxx-_**

The fist hits his jaw before his alcohol numbed senses even have the chance to register that it's coming for him, the blow knocking him clean off his chair and he lands in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"You owe me money, Belasis," a gruff voice says from somewhere above him.

Tom rolls over and manages to sit himself up, smiling at his assailant with a wide, toothy grin. "Well, I seem to have drunk it all," he laughs as he gets to his feet. "But you're welcome to it when I piss it out the other end."

The fist flies at him again but, this time, he's ready for it and manages to block the blow with his forearm. Hand-to-hand combat was something that he'd excelled at in his military training, so much so that not even his inebriated state can weaken him. He would easily have been able to fight off the much bigger and burlier man, had it not been for a second coming up behind him. He grabs Tom by the back of his shirt, pulling him backwards and kicking him in the back of the knee, causing him to lose his balance and hit his head on the corner of the table. The room spins around him and he feels dizzy but yet all he can do is lie there and laugh.

"Oi!" another voice bellows, this one belonging to the landlord. "Little Lord Fauntleroy, clear off. I don't want to see you in here again!"

"Alright, alright," he slurs, getting to his feet and clumsily scrambling around for his jacket. "I'm going... I should be at a wedding."

**_-xxx-_**

Sure enough, as promised, Tom Branson is waiting for her under the old oak tree just as he promised he would be. He looks incredibly handsome in full morning wear, if not a little hot.

"You look very smart," she smiles, just trying to make small talk.

"I hope so," replies Tom with a shrug of his shoulders. "Because I'm very uncomfortable."

They stand in silence for a moment, neither quite sure what to say to the other as they finally find themselves alone.

"Why did you run?" Sybil asks eventually. "That morning, I saw you leave and then you sent the telegram."

Tom sighs. "I didn't run, well, not really... I had a plan but it was intercepted and now I fear I'll be living with the consequences for the rest of my days."

Sybil looks at him quizzically. "I don't understand."

"You love your Mr Belasis, yes? You want to marry him though your courtship has been secret?"

"Yes."

"Well I think that perhaps you and I have more similarities than we first thought," he says. "Because I know what it's like to love someone and to have to keep it a secret, though I suspect that your family would approve much more of your marriage than mine would of my chosen bride."

Sybil's lips curl up into the faintest hint of a smile. "Tell me about her."

"Her name is Bronagh, she is... was... my sister's governess. We became friends after I offered her a helping hand when she was locked out of our house in London on one of the wettest, coldest nights I can remember. We soon discovered that our feelings for one another ran much deeper than just friendship and, eventually, I asked her to marry me."

"And she said yes?"

"She did," he replies. "We'd always known that we wanted to return to Ireland and start our new life together in Dublin, moving to the country close to where she grew up once the children came along, though we knew that we couldn't just leave without some sort of a plan. We needed somewhere to live, employment, and everything else that comes along with it. She wanted to teach and I've always fancied myself as a bit of a writer and a friend of mine from my university days said that he was certain that he was able to find a job for me at one of the cities newspapers. It wouldn't have paid much in the beginning, but it would have been enough just to get us started."

"So why didn't you leave when that opportunity arose?" Sybil asks. "What happened?"

"You did," replies Tom sincerely. "Well, our fathers did. They met and decided that you and I should be married instead. Once you'd told me about your relationship with Tom Belasis, I thought that I could save us both by persuading Bronagh to run away with me. That's where I was going the morning you saw me, to Liverpool, where she was supposed to meet me. When I got there, it wasn't her waiting there at the docks, but my father. As it turns out, he knew all about our affair after he read my diaries and had her dismissed."  
Sybil is momentarily stunned - she's never really been sure what to make of the elder Mr Branson but, in her eyes, he isn't doing anything to redeem himself and persuade her that he is a likeable man. "Where is she now?"

Tom shrugs. "That's the thing," he says. "I haven't a clue. I've been trying to track her down but to no avail. Several of the letters I sent to the address she lived at before coming to work for us have been returned, and nobody seems to know where else she could be. I've lost her," he tells her, tears glistening in his bright blue eyes. "I've lost her and I don't think I'm ever going to see her again."

Sybil places a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "For everything... for the way I misjudged you and jumped to conclusions. I'm certain that I may have said all of this to you before, but I really am. You're a good man, Tom Branson, and I'm sure you would have made your lady so very happy."

He smiles tearfully at her then. "Thank you," he says. "I'd like to think that, in another life, I could have made you very happy, because you deserve it so much, Sybil. I would have been a good husband to you..."

"I know you would have," she replies. "But I still have to hold on to the hope that Tom is going to make it through this war and come home to marry me."  
"I have every faith that he will," Tom smiles. "Because he'd be a fool to give up on a woman as wonderful as you for even a single second."

**_-xxx-_**

Tom Belasis staggers up the familiar path towards the Abbey, the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his feet too loud for his aching head. He had thought that a long walk would do him the world of good but, truth be told, he feels a million times worse. He's gotten himself into some right states since enlisting in the army, his drinking habit spiralling further and further out of control. He hasn't even set foot on the battlefield yet and already he's terrified. This isn't the grand adventure and act of heroism that he thought it would be, and it had been a trip to a military hospital in York with one of the lads that he'd befriended during his training to visit the Private's brother where his bubble had been well and truly burst. He'd seen men with missing limbs, holes torn through various other parts of their bodies by bullets and shrapnel and those with burns so severe they don't even look like human beings anymore. Listening to their stories, free from the rhymes and embellishments used by the newspapers to romanticise and glorify what was really going on over there, had put the fear of God into him. It had been that night, after returning to their camp after that visit, that the dreams had begun - nightmares so vivid that they almost seemed prophetic - and he'd found that the only way to banish them was to drink himself to sleep. Of course, it was mostly done in secret, for all the men had found their ways to hide their vices.

His father is ashamed of what he has become, he'd said as much when they'd met for dinner in Manchester several nights ago now. That was when they had run into Mr Crawley, and Tom can't help but wonder if he's said anything to Sybil about his obviously erratic behaviour.

Sybil.

His darling Sybil.

How could he possibly admit to her that he is afraid? He is a coward and she deserves so much better than that. She deserves a good man, a brave man and, right now, he is neither of those things. It's right then that an epiphany of sorts hits him - there's no way in hell he can turn up unannounced to her sister's wedding in his current state and so he decides to take a long walk around the Abbey's grounds to compose himself but, as it so happens, he doesn't have far to go before he hears the familiar voice of his fiancée, conversing with another well spoken man with a distinct Irish accent.

Peering through the trees, Tom observes the pair - their standing very close together, her hand on his arm and the whole scene looks a little too intimate for his liking. However, whatever is going on between Sybil and the Irishman will soon transpire to be the very least of his worries...

What he should be more concerned about is the two officers of the Royal Military Police hot on his tail.


	8. A Pair of Star Cross'd Lovers

_**Sorry it's taken me so long to update but I've been so busy - I'm starting a new job next month and it involves a big relocation so I'm running round trying to get everything sorted for that. I'm not sure if FF was playing up the last time I updated because I know that I wasn't receiving alerts for stories that I was following for some reason, not many people read or reviewed which is cool but you might want to go back a chapter and catch up if you missed it. This was a really horrible one to write - I know what's happened to Tom Belasis might sound extreme, but the human mind is a strange and complex thing so, given the situation he's found himself in, I think his downfall could have been inevitable. Enjoy and let me know what you think - I'm actually in two minds whether or not to continue this story :) x**_

* * *

Sybil's head jerks up as she hears a branch snapping from somewhere in the bushes - Tom had left her alone a while ago now, but she wasn't ready to rejoin the party just yet, needing time to process everything that he's told her.

"Hello?" she asks tentatively, wondering who could possibly be disturbing her solitude. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that it's the other Tom - her Tom - although in a slightly dishevelled state. "Tom!" she gasps. "Oh, my darling, it's so good to see you again."

Tom barely moves as she flings himself into his arms, one of his own coming loosely around her waist as he stares blankly over her shoulder.

"You smell like a brewery," she chastises as she pulls away, her nose wrinkled almost in disgust.

"Sorry," he replies, the mumbled apology quite clearly said half heartedly. "I got carried away."

"You don't say," she says, still less than impressed.

"Who was he?" asks Tom. "The gentleman I saw you speaking with so secretively."

Sybil's eyes widen, not sure how to explain it having not told Tom anything of her current predicament with Mr Branson. "I... he... it was nothing," she says. "He's just a friend."

Tom quirks an eyebrow at her. "Well it appeared to me as being so much more than nothing."

Sybil sighs. "Oh Tom, it's all such a mess." She finds herself telling him everything then, fighting back her tears as she tries to make him see that he is the man she loves and how she'll do anything to get out of her marriage to Tom Branson and, just as he had tried to do by going after Bronagh, at least try to give them a both a shot at happiness.

Unsteady on his feet, Tom thinks he's just about taken all of that into his intoxicated brain. "Then run away with me," he says, striding towards Sybil and pinning her up against the tree. "Run away with me tonight and we'll get married."

"No, Tom," Sybil says as he sloppily starts to kiss her neck, his hands wandering up her sides as he presses himself against her. "Let me go." He ignores her though, continuing to kiss her, each one more forceful than the next. His weight is almost crushing her and she can feel how his body has changed in the months since she saw him last - there's a strength in him that scares her. He kisses her hard on the mouth, squeezing and caressing her breasts which is a step too far.

This isn't her Tom.

This is a man she doesn't know,

"I said STOP!" she screams, managing to push him away.

He suddenly realises what he's done and silent tears stream down his cheeks. "Sybil, darling, I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to... I would never... surely you know that I wouldn't?"

"Well I was scared for a moment that you would," she replies, fighting back her own tears.

"Would you though, if I asked you to? If I asked you to come to me tonight..."

Sybil shakes her head. "Given the state you're in now, no," she tells him honestly. "You're a stranger to me."

"But you don't understand," replies Tom. "You don't know what it's like..."

"No," she interrupts. "No I don't... because you don't tell me. Talk to me, Tom, like you used to."

"I'm scared, Sybil," he says tearfully. "I'm absolutely bloody terrified... and I did something. I did something awful and it's killing me, eating away at me from the inside day by bloody day."

"What did you do?"

Tom shakes his head. "I... I can't tell you. I'm sorry, but I just can't."

Sybil sighs. "You really aren't helping yourself."

"Let me talk to you father," he begs. "Please. We can be married before I go out to France... it would be quick and simple, but we could do it all properly when I come back..."

"Tom, this is absurd!" she exclaims, seeing his shoulders visibly slump in disappointment. "You can't honestly be serious about approaching my father given your current state. Go and sleep this off, have a bath and then you and I will talk before you speak with Papa... Now, if you'll excuse me, I really should be getting back to my sister's wedding."

_**-xxx-**_

She knows that she should probably take her time making her way back to the house so as to clear her head, but people will no doubt have noticed her absence by now. The first person she bumps into as she returns to the party is none other than Tom Branson.

"It's alright," he says before she's even had a chance to say hello. "I told your parents you weren't feeling too well... too much champagne and sunshine. They think you were just getting some fresh air."

"Thank you," she says. "Though how did you know where I really was?"

"I came to find you again when everyone started moving into the house, but I saw that you were otherwise engaged and I thought you might need a minute."

Sybil smiles at him appreciatively, that fading when she spots the two uniformed officers heading towards the front doors of the house. "Who are they?"

Tom looks at her, almost sympathetically though he's not entirely sure whether or not that's the right thing to do. "Military police," he tells her quietly. "But I think you should know, I overheard them speaking with your father. He wasn't best pleased that they'd interrupted his daughter's wedding but, apparently, they're looking for your Mr Belasis."

Sybil furrows her brow. "Tom? What would they want with him?"

Tom sighs. "Don't think about it," he says. "Just... enjoy the rest of the day. Your sister looks beautiful, and so happy... go and share that with her."

"But..."

"Please, Sybil," he says, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. "Please."

She nods reluctantly, before letting him go. "Oh, Tom," she thinks to herself. "What have you done?"

_**-xxx-**_

Sybil awakes early the following morning, not really having slept much at all what with the celebrations not ending until the early hours of the morning and the thoughts of Tom and his involvement with the military police racing through her mind and keeping her awake. Sick of tossing and turning, she dresses without ringing for Gwen to come and help her, pinning back her hair as best she can, and heads downstairs in the hope of locking herself in the library for a few hours and lose herself in a good book until the rest of the family and the selected guests who had spent the night at the Abbey made an appearance. Just as she comes to the stairs, she hears voices coming from somewhere just off the hallway below her and pauses to listen in to the conversation - she recognises two of them as belonging to her father and Lord Darsbury, but the others are alien to her.

"So you have no idea where he is now?"

"None at all," says Lord Darsbury. "If he's not here, and I can assure you he isn't, then he'll be at the Grantham Arms."

"He's not there either, is he?" her own father asks.

Sybil quietly moves down a couple of steps to get a clearer view of the other two men involved in the discussion, recognising them now as the military police officers who had come by the house yesterday. One of them shakes his head. "Afraid not, milord," he says. "Landlord says he went out last night and never came back. We followed him up here yesterday afternoon though nobody's seen him since."

Sybil sits down on the step, her heart racing at a million miles per hour. Who are these men and what do they want with Tom? Thankfully, his father asks that very same question.

"Forgive me, officers, but you haven't actually said what business you have with my son."

The two men exchange an almost nervous look, the elder of the two turning to the Viscount and solemnly sealing the fate of his beloved son. "Lieutenant Belasis is a deserter."

Sybil gasps, bringing her hand up to her mouth to muffle the sound. It can't be true - not her Tom... he'd never do anything like that.

Yet the man she'd seen in the garden yesterday wasn't her Tom.

She knows that she has to find him before they do - she has to uncover the truth somehow, but she can't do it on her own. She doesn't know why, but the first person who comes to mind is the very man she'd once sworn to loathe.

She runs back upstairs and down the bachelor's corridor, knocking on the door with enough force to draw the attention of its occupant but not to wake the others who are sleeping in the adjacent rooms. It's not until she knocks for the third time that a very sleepy looking Tom Branson comes to the door.

"Sybil?" he croaks, his voice hoarse. "What's wrong?"

In a hurried whisper, she tells him everything that she's just heard, and the fact that he knew of the presence of the officers yesterday had prompted her to think that he might be the one to help her. "I have to find him."

Tom nods, even though he knows there's probably not much they can do, he knows what it's like to lose someone you love and she at least deserves the chance to say goodbye. "Alright, just give me a couple of minutes to get dressed and I'll meet you outside."

Sybil nods and smiles in thanks before leaving him again, another idea coming to mind as she heads back to her own room. Last winter, Tom had given her one of his scarves to keep warm when they'd managed to sneak away for a walk when the Crawley's had been visiting his family's Cheshire estate and he'd insisted that she keep it. Grabbing the scarf, she then goes in search of one of her father's dogs - old Pharaoh doesn't so much as bat an eyelid at her and just curls back up in his basket and goes back to sleep, but the young pup Isis is eager to help her mistress. She's been out on a couple of hunts now and has a keen sense of smell - a very good gun dog, her father had said - and if there's any chance of Tom's scent being picked up then she's the one to do it.

"Papa," she says as she crosses paths with her father. "I'm going to take Isis for a walk before breakfast. She's the only one in this house who has as much energy as I do at this time of the morning."

Robert chuckles. "Just be careful," he says and, in that moment, Sybil knows that her father knows she knows about the conversation he's just had with Viscount Darsbury and the two officers.

"I will, Papa. Besides, Mr Branson was kind enough to say that he'd come with me."

Her father nods, satisfied that she won't be going alone and happy that the two of them seem to be getting along at last. "Sybil," he calls just before she goes. "I'm going to look at some of the old farms later this afternoon and I was thinking about taking the horses, give their legs a good stretch. I was thinking that you might like to come with me?"

Sybil smiles, it's been a while since she and her father spent any real quality time together and they always used to go out on long rides when she was younger."I would," she says. "I really would like to."

Robert watches his youngest daughter as she steps out of the house knowing that, with both her sisters now married, he needs to start spending more time with her - they'd often left Sybil to her own devices and she seemed to enjoy her own company as much as anyone else's but now their focus should be on her. However, what nobody could ever being to conceive was just how much the youngest of the Crawley girls would come to need those who loved her in the aftermath of the events that were about to unfold.

_**-xxx-**_

Isis bounds through the woodlands, Tom and Sybil hot on her tail as she seems to have picked up a scent. It's hard to run in a skirt and so Sybil finds herself lagging several paces behind Tom and the dog, being careful not to trip over a stray branch or slip on the uneven ground.

Isis finally stops at an old abandoned hut deep in the trees, bounding around and barking loudly to show her masters that she's found her prize.

"Good girl," Tom says, fussing over the labrador and scratching behind her ears as he tries to calm her down, Sybil tentatively moving towards the hut.

"Tom? Tom are you in there?"

Almost in a parallel of what had happened earlier, Tom Belasis emerges from the hut, still half asleep and looking a little worse for wear. "I went for a walk," he says, answering the inevitable question as to what he's doing here. "It was dark and I got lost."

Sybil sighs. "There's no time for excuses and explanations," she sighs. "There are two military police officers up at the house looking for you..."

"I'm sorry," he interrupts. "I'm so, so, sorry... you'll tell my mother and father that, won't you?"

"Sorry for what?"

Tom shakes his head. "I didn't mean for it to happen... it was an accident."

Sybil steps closer to him then and takes his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her as the tears begin to fall from his eyes. "Tom, darling, you have to talk to me," she says tenderly. "Tell me what happened and we can fix this."

"No, you can't... none of you can," he tells her. "I killed someone... like I said, I didn't mean for it to happen. They keep saying it wasn't my fault, but I know that it was. They won't punish me because they're waiting... waiting until we get to the Front and God will judge me for my sins."

Sybil looks over her shoulder at the other Tom who has finally managed to calm Isis down - she's never heard him speak of God so explicitly before, both of them being open to the concept of religion but never really being convinced by it. "I don't understand," she says, feeling as though that's all she ever says to him these days - he won't talk to her and, if he won't talk to her, then she can't do anything to help.

"We were out practising our shooting," he begins at last. "Something went wrong with my rifle and, somehow, the boy I was paired with ended up getting shot... straight through the heart it was, nothing anyone could have done to save him. As I said, they keep telling me that it wasn't my fault, but I feel so guilty... I can feel the stares, hear the whispers and how everyone says that I'll get what's coming to me for what happened."

"It was an accident," she says, not sure whether she's trying to reassure him or herself by this point. "They all know that..."

"You ran, didn't you?" the Irishman asks from behind the couple. "That's why those two men are here for you?"

Tom nods and, suddenly, he looks like a frightened little boy. "It wasn't how I thought it would be... well, it was until **that** happened. It was supposed to be an adventure but if accidentally killing a man has poisoned me like this, then what will it be like when I have to do it purposefully as my duty? I tried to do something about it, to talk to someone, but nobody would listen to me... I kept having the most awful dreams and only drinking would help them go away. I've had some leave before we were supposed to leave for France, but that ended days ago..."

"You and your father told Matthew that it was enough to allow you to come to Edith's wedding," Sybil cuts in.

"Well I lied," he retorts. "I know I keep saying it, but I really am sorry. I'm bloody terrified, Sybil... do you know what they do to deserters?"

Sybil swallows her tears and nods - she hadn't wanted to think about it, but now the reality is facing them and she can't run from it any longer. "You're not a coward to me," she says quietly, resting her forehead against his. "And I'll tell everyone who questions it for even a single second that you're one of the bravest men I've ever met."

"If I go to them, I'll never see you again."

"I know," says Sybil. "But it's too late to run away now."

"You'll look after her, won't you?" Tom calls out to his fiancée's companion. "Please."

Tom Branson, who had turned his back on the couple to give them a moment of privacy, looks up at the younger man and nods. "I will if that's what Sybil wishes."

"Thank you," he smiles before turning his attention back to Sybil and taking both of her hands in his. "Are they still at the house?"

She looks up at him, tears glistening in her big blue eyes. "You're going to go to them?"

Tom nods. "I don't see what choice I have," he says. "Perhaps if I go of my own free will, the punishment will be less severe... but maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part."

"I love you," Sybil tells him. "I don't think I've said it nearly enough."

Tom kisses her then, letting his lips linger upon hers - the taste of her is the last meal of the condemned man and now he knows the time has come to accept his fate. "I wish that things had been different," he says. "But you have the rest of your life ahead of you. Be happy, be wonderful be... someone. You're a wonderful woman, Sybil, and you have the potential to do wonderful things."

"Don't leave me!" she begs as he drops her hands and turns to leave. "Please."

"Just remember me as I used to be... as we used to be... and I never will leave you. Just don't follow me, that's all I ask. I love you."

Not knowing quite what else to do, Tom Branson waits until the fallen soldier is out of sight before stepping closer to Sybil. As soon as he does, she buries her head against his chest and begins to weep. All he can do is hold her and let her have this moment, vowing to stay with her as long as it takes for her to feel ready to return home.

It's the last she will ever see of her beloved, but the paths of the two Tom's will cross one last time...


	9. Picking Up the Pieces

_**WOW! Thank you so much for the incredible response to the last chapter, it really spurred me on to get the next one out as quick as I could and so that's what I've spent this afternoon doing. It's a bit of a short one, but I really want to start moving this story forward and getting Tom and Sybil married (because that's when the REAL drama will start). I know it may seem as though they're making a rash decision to do what they do, but that is addressed in the next chapter. I warn you now, their marriage is anything but plain sailing, and going into it when they're still in love with other people really isn't going to help matters. I'll stop telling you what happens and just let you read - as I say, the response to the previous chapter blew me away and, if the same were to happen again, I might find the motivation to churn out another chapter over the weekend. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

Sybil very much retreats into herself in the months following the death of Tom Belasis - she'll see something that reminds her of him, remember something he'd said or done that had made her laugh and it would be enough to make her cry again even when she thought there couldn't possibly be any more tears to shed.

It's around late November when the family start to notice that Sybil is receiving letters every couple of days, each envelope addressed to her in the same neat script as the one before. Nobody dares say anything or question it though, for the content of those letters is beginning to put a smile back on her face and, every now and then, she'll excuse herself from the breakfast table, only for her laughter to be heard from the hallway a couple of seconds later. What none of them know is that she has been in frequent correspondence with Tom Branson - it had begun when, a couple of weeks after what had happened, he had written to her and asked how she was doing. Sybil had found that it was easier to put her thoughts and feelings down onto paper and, sure enough, he'd listened and consoled her in a way that nobody else seemed to be able to do. Over the weeks, their letters had become friendlier in tone and they'd moved away from the topic of Tom Belasis (though he was always in their thoughts and prayers) and they'd found common ground as they'd discussed things like history and politics, sharing their recommendations for good books to read and she asks him how his search for Bronagh is coming along, her heart soaring with joy for him when he reveals that he may in fact be close to finding her.

**_-xxx-_**

It was one of the maids who had told him where he might find her, begging for his forgiveness for being privy to his private affairs, but she had been close to the former governess and had managed to get in touch with her several weeks ago. She had known how fond they were of each other, and Miss Órlaith had let it slip that he was searching for her. It was known among the staff that Tom possessed a kind heart and that he was more understanding than his father, but the maid is still relieved when he tells her that there is nothing to forgive and that he will find some way to thank her for providing him with this information. And so it is that he writes to her and he waits and waits and waits for a reply until one morning, just as he's about to give up hope, a letter arrives for him with an Irish post mark, though he waits until he's in the privacy of his bedroom before he opens it.

_My dearest Tom,_

_How wonderful it is to hear from you at last, though I am sorry I've_

_been so hard to find - I've had to move around several times since I returned to Ireland_

_in search of better employment prospects, but you should know that I am happy and settled now, and that things have worked out just fine. _

_Oh my darling, I do miss you so much and it breaks my heart to tell you this but you and I shall never meet again. You see, the thing is, I am engaged to be married - he is a school teacher from Killarney, a good and kind man who adores me just as you did. Please do not write to me again, I haven't yet told him our full story and I'm not sure he'd understand._

_Be happy for me, my dear, just as I will be for you. You were my first love _

_and I will never forget you._

_Forever your friend,_

_Bronagh_

He crumples the letter, feeling his heart shatter into a thousand pieces as he lets her words sink in. She's to be married to another man and so soon after she had left for Ireland - the jealous part of him wonders if she ever really loved him at all, or at least not as much as she said that she did, but then the rational side of him takes over once more and he realises that this is perhaps for the best. In marrying this man, she will have a kind of security that there was no guarantee he could have given to her had they gone ahead with their clandestine marriage. They would have been shunned by both of their families, by their community and there was no real certainty that either of them would have been able to find employment, especially with her being a married woman. It's only in hindsight that he realises how absurd their idea had been and how it had all just been a silly, juvenile folly in which the idea had been that love would conquer all.

Though one thing he was certain of is that a part of him will love her for the rest of his days.

**_-xxx-_**

"It'll be over by Christmas" they'd said and yet, here they were, coming towards the end of December and still the war raged on across the sea. Mary had received word from Matthew that he wouldn't be coming home for the festive season, but that he would try to get as far as London early in the new year if his commanding officers would permit it, and that he'd like it very much if his wife and mother could join him there if that were to be the case. Despite everything, the House of Grantham put on the same spectacular show as it did each and every year - the gigantic and Christmas tree in the hall, ornately decorated by the family and staff alike, wreathes of holly and ivy twisting around the banisters and a smell of cinnamon, oranges and various other spices wafting around the entire house. The Earl had decided that the annual servants' ball would still go ahead, just as it always did, but that it would be brought forward to Christmas Eve so as their guests could all celebrate together and take a moment to think of and remember those who would not be able to join them as they did their duty for king and country. Understandably, the Darsbury's family would be remaining at home this year, preferring to spend the holidays with their own family instead. However, much to Sybil's evident delight, the Bransons **would** be coming up from London to join them - she was glad of the opportunity to see her friend, for she hadn't heard from him in a while and there was much she wanted to talk to him about.

The night of the ball, she finds him sitting alone outside clutching a glass of mulled wine between his hands to keep them warm as he stares out across the gardens.

"Merry Christmas," says Sybil now that it's after midnight, not too loudly so as not to startle him.

Tom looks over his shoulder and smiles at her - she's wearing blue again (he thinks she looks very pretty in blue) and he's glad that she's sought him out. They haven't really had much of a chance to spend time in each other's company this evening and so a moment alone away from the rest of the party is just what they need. "Merry Christmas to you too," he says. "Though it doesn't feel very merry, does it?"

Sybil shakes her head as she sits down next to him. "No," she replies. "You can tell that everyone wants to talk about the war, how it's blatantly obvious that they're missing those they love, but yet they don't because this should be a happy occasion."

"I used to love Christmas," Tom tells her. "Though not so much after my mother died. Father never really cared for it... we'd go to mass and exchange small gifts, but there was never really any sort of celebration. I suppose that's why I like it so much when we celebrate with friends. This is Órlaith's favourite time of the year and I love seeing her so happy, she hasn't really had the best of childhood's growing up in a house like ours."

"She seems rather happy tonight," says Sybil. "She was dancing with one of the Skelton boys the last I saw."

Tom frowns. "She's too young to be dancing with boys."

Sybil laughs. "She's almost fifteen," she says. "Let her have some fun. I pity any daughters you might have one day, you'll be locking them away until they're at least twenty-five."

"Thirty," replies Tom with a smirk. "In all seriousness, she's beautiful and I know that it's only a matter of time before boys want to start courting her. She's growing into such a wonderful young woman and I just want what's best for her."

"My sisters feel the same way about me," she says. "I suppose it's just an older sibling's prerogative."

"I haven't danced with you yet," Tom points out, rather abruptly changing the subject. "In fact, I haven't danced with you since your ball. That was the night you fell out with me though."

"I didn't fall out with you," she corrects. "I just heard part of a conversation and jumped to conclusions for which I'm sorry. If you must know, I liked dancing with you."

Tom gets to his feet and offers out his hand to her. "Then dance with me again."

Smiling genuinely in the presence of another for the first time in so very long, she accepts his hand and he pulls her into a formal hold as they begin a simple waltz in time to the music that they can hear coming from inside the house.

"Did you ever manage to get in touch with Bronagh again?" she asks.

Tom nods his head and sighs wearily. "She's engaged," he says.

"Oh, Tom, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replies. "It's probably for the best. Though it has got me thinking." He twirls her under his arm then, smiling as she laughs out loud - there's colour in her cheeks again and the sparkle has returned to her eyes after being bound to her grief for so long. "Perhaps... perhaps you and I **should** get married."

"What?" Sybil asks as they come to a halt, though she doesn't move from the warmth of his arms.

"Think about it," he says. "We understand each other and what we've both been through better than anyone else. You don't despise me as much as you used to and I'm very... fond... of you."  
"Fond?"

"I know it's not the best basis for a marriage and I'm not expecting you to love me as you loved Tom and somehow I don't think I'll ever be able to truly let go of my feelings for Bronagh, but we could make it work."

Sybil looks into his eyes and sees nothing but sincerity in them. "I think our hearts have been broken beyond repair," she says. "At least, if we marry, we'll both know that we're never truly going to be alone."

"Is that a yes then?"

Sybil sighs. "It's what everyone expects of us."

"But is it what you want?"

"I think it is, yes," she replies. "You're my friend, Tom, one of my only friends... I really think we could make this work."

Tom smiles. "So, now that we're engaged, am I allowed to kiss you?"

Sybil nods though, when he presses his lips to hers chastely, she doesn't feel anything...

Still, she supposes that there are worse men she could spend the rest of her life with.


	10. A Marriage of Convenience

_**I AM ON A ROLL! I suppose that's really down to you guys though and your encouraging words which have given me the motivation to carry on and update as quickly as possible. This is the third chapter in as many days so, if you've missed anything, you might want to go back and give it a read. If this were a canon fic, I could write pages upon pages about Tom and Sybil's wedding but, as it's their actual marriage that will form the bulk of this story, I didn't really see the need to do that here. Still, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless and there is plenty more to come (we're rally only just getting started!). I notice that we're very nearly at 100 reviews - it would be amazing if we could reach that milestone with this chapter. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

Days before Sybil's wedding, Lady Rosamund Painswick arrives from London and, naturally, she has a lot to say on the matter of her niece's upcoming nuptials.

"Yes it's quick," she says to her mother. "But I suppose she has no choice. Her name is linked to a deserter, a man shot for cowardice and who brought shame to his family. That won't do her any favours come the season."

"Oh really, Rosamund," Violet chides. "You've always given the impression that Sybil is your favourite of the three and now you're happy to see her married off for the sake of saving the family fortune."

"I am fond of her, Mama." replies Rosamund. "But even you have to admit that, what with most men her age gone off to war, there won't be many left to choose from when it's all over."

Violet purses her lips - she knows that her daughter is right, but there's still something about Sybil's sudden marriage that bothers her. Robert had said that both parties were adamant that they weren't going to marry each other, and then they'd surprised them all at Christmas by announcing their engagement. That had been little over a month ago and the whole affair seems rather... hasty. She doesn't think for a single second that Sybil is in any sort of 'trouble', but she can't help but wonder if the couple have made a rather rash decision.

"Perhaps you're right," the Dowager says. "Though nobody understands how Sybil's mind works... not even Sybil some of the time. I suppose we'll just have to see how this Mr Branson fits into the family."

**_-xxx-_**

Even though it was to be much simpler than that of either of her sisters, the wedding of an Earl's daughter was still a lavish celebration to be enjoyed by the entire village - there's bunting up in the streets, the shopkeepers offer their finest wares and many a toast is made to the happy couple in the Grantham Arms in the days leading up to the wedding. At last though, the day is here, and Sybil honestly doesn't know what to make of it all - her hair has been pulled every which way, her brand new corset feels to tight and stiff which makes it hard for her to breathe and she's not even sure what to think of the dress. Mary and Edith had been incredibly particular in what they wanted from their own gowns but, for Sybil, she hadn't really given it much thought. It was... nice... but her reflection seems so foreign and alien to her as she stares back at the bride in the mirror. She's wearing the diamond headpiece that has been worn by every Crawley bride for almost a century as her something old, a beautiful pearl bracelet given to her by her parents as her something new, her something borrowed is the veil Mary wore for her own wedding, and a pair of Edith's sapphire earrings make up her something blue.

"You look beautiful, darling," Mary says, being the only one to linger behind once all the other women have gone downstairs. "Really, you do."

Sybil forces a smile. "I don't feel it," she admits. "I feel rather foolish."

Mary laughs and takes hold of her sister's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Well you don't, trust me," she replies. "Though you know that you don't have to do this, there is still time to..."

"Mary, please," Sybil interrupts. "You've been saying this for weeks. I want to marry Tom, it's the right thing to do and I am fond of him. Mama and Papa weren't in love when they married, so there's hope for us yet."

Her sister sighs. "I just want what's best for you. We all do," she says softly. "Though, just so you know, as awkward as Mama's speech was about the marriage bed was, she does have a point when she says that it can be the most terrific fun."

Sybil blushes then. "Is it for you and Matthew?" she asks. "I'm sorry, that's such a personal question."

Mary shakes her head. "Darling, it's not at all too personal. I know what it is to be a wife, to be a woman who has desires same as any man," she says. "And, to answer your question, it really is and I hope that there will come a day when you understand just what we mean. On a slightly related note, I have something to tell you... something that I think might put a smile on your face for the rest of today."

"What?"

"I'm pregnant...Matthew and I are having a baby."

Sybil flings her arms around her sister then and pulls her into a tight embrace, not caring for a single second if her carefully constructed appearance ends up looking slightly dishevelled. "Oh Mary," she says. "That's fantastic news. You're going to be such a wonderful mother."

"Thank you," replies Mary, her pregnancy hormones leaving her feeling a little emotional at the relief of being able to share her secret with someone. "We're overjoyed... though we're not telling anyone else just yet as we've decided not to steal your thunder."

"I really wouldn't mind," Sybil laughs. "You know how much I hate being the centre of attention."

Mary's lips curl up into a smile. "Yes but, darling, this is your wedding day... and all eyes are always on the bride."

**_-xxx-_**

Tom fixes his tie and tries to smooth down the errant strand of hair that just won't stay in place one last time before he really does have to leave and get to the church if he's going to arrive before his bride. There's a knock at his door and he looks over his shoulder to see his father standing behind him with a bottle of the finest Irish whisky money can buy and two glasses.

"Can a man not share a drink with his son on the morning of his wedding?"

Tom nods. "Of course," he replies. "Though it'll have to be a quick one, I'm already late as it is."

"You're fine," says Ted. "If she's anything like your mother was, she's probably still preening... cheers."

Tom clinks his glass against his father's and smiles. Every now and then, Ted has these moments where the softer side of him emerges. They're rare, but it's times like these where Tom feels as though they can have some true father and son bonding time, when Órlaith will smile as he compliments her new dress or something she's painted...

It makes him feel like he's from a normal, happy family.

"I know that this is what you and Robert wanted," says Tom, swallowing his whisky down in one. "But Sybil and I aren't marrying for that reason. We're doing it because we want to."

Ted nods as he refills their glasses. "Not long ago, you would have thought it inconceivable to enter into marriage without being madly in love with your bride."

"I realised that I was living in a dream and that it was time to wake up," he says. "I just wish Kieran were here."

"So do I, Son, so do I," Ted agrees, and the two men make a toast to absent friends. "Sybil's a pretty girl. She'll give you good, handsome sons who will go on to achieve great things."

"And beautiful daughters who will no doubt do the same," he replies. "But, please, can I just get married before we start thinking about children."

Ted chuckles. "Get things right tonight and you won't have the time to think about them."

"Oh God," Tom groans just as his father is about to launch himself straight into a talk about the marriage bed. "I think I need another drink."

**_-xxx-_**

His bride is, in a word, stunning. She gives him a shy smile from underneath her veil as she walks down the aisle towards him on her father's arm, and he can hear the appreciative murmurs from behind him as the congregation whisper among themselves over how beautiful she looks. Being a bride suits her, though Tom just wishes that it was under different circumstances. He says his vows as solemnly as he would have said them to Bronagh, meaning every word he says when he promises to be good and true to her until death do they part - he'll make her happy, treat her well and, hopefully, in time, the love between them will grow. As he slips the plain gold band onto the fourth finger on her left hand and the Reverend Travis proclaims them husband and wife, a new chapter in both their lives begins - it might not be one that either of them had wanted to be written, but this is their story now and only they can decide how it ends.

**_-xxx-_**

Just as her sisters had said that it would, the rest of her wedding day passes in a blur and, before she knows it, she's being ushered upstairs to change for her going away. It had been arranged that the couple would spend the night in York before leaving for London the following morning - they'd decided against the idea of a honeymoon, what with the current state of the continent. Ted would be leaving for Ireland to see to some business in Dublin and would take Órlaith with him, giving the newlyweds time to become better acquainted with each other and allow Sybil time to adjust to her new home. She adores London, but has only ever spent short periods of time there and never before has she been away from home on her own - still, at least she has Gwen, who will be coming with her to act as her lady's maid now that she was a married woman and that was something that Sybil would be eternally thankful for.

The new Mr and Mrs Branson (though she'll officially be known as **Lady** Sybil Branson) leave the Abbey to rapturous applause and messages of good luck from the well wishers gathered to celebrate with them, very few of them aware of the true nature of their marriage. There are some tearful goodbyes said between Sybil and her family, though Tom squeezes her han and runs a thumb over her gloved knuckles in a gesture of reassurance as he helps her into the waiting car.

"Thank you, for today," she says quietly as the house fades away behind them. "Given everything, I think it was really rather wonderful."

**_-xxx-_**

It had taken some considerable time, but Gwen had finally managed to remove every single pin that had been keeping Sybil's hair up in its elaborate style, much to the bride's evident relief. She'd asked her mistress how she wanted her hair for the night, and Sybil had decided upon her usual plait, thinking that her husband seeing her with her hair completely down would be far too intimate (which she knew was rather strange considering what was now expected of her). Seeing her hands shaking as she applies some cream to them, Gwen squeezes Sybil's shoulder and smiles.

"It'll be alright, milady," she says softly. "Mr Branson's a good man, he won't hurt you."

"Oh Gwen," Sybil sighs. "I know he won't, but it's just that... I'm rather nervous. I had expected to adore my husband and that we'd spend our wedding night making love instead of me just doing my wifely duty."

Gwen blushes slightly at her openness, though she knows that no topic is off limits during their conversations and it's one of the things she likes most about Lady Sybil. "Milady, Anna told me that she ran a bath f'Lady Mary after she and Mr Matthew... well... I don't suppose it needs sayin' but I could do the same, if you wish?"

Sybil nods. "I think I'd like that very much," she replies. "Thank you, Gwen, for being more than just a loyal servant... but for being my friend."

**_-xxx-_**

For the second time that day, Tom's jaw drops at the sight of Sybil. Mary had helped to pick out her sister's trousseau and had been very excited about one garment in particular - the nightgown she would wear on her wedding night. It's a beautiful soft silver grey colour which clings to the curves of her body and brings out the blue of her eyes. She is a goddess, and Tom feels unworthy in her presence - a part of him feels bad for loving her body more than the rest of her for which, at the moment, he only holds a mere appreciation in comparison.

"Do you... ummm... would you like something to drink?" he flusters. "Some champagne?"

Sybil shakes her head. "No thank you."

Tom moves to sit beside her on the bed and takes one of her hands in his. "Look, Sybil, I know this is different to how either of us planned it to be, but that doesn't mean I won't take my vows any less seriously. I'll be a good husband and I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness..."

Sybil smiles back at him and, surprising even herself, leans forward and presses her lips to his, running her free hand down his chest to come to rest above his heart. "Then as my husband," she says when she pulls away from him after just a second. "I do believe we have a duty to perform."

"Oh, Sybil," he sighs and moves one of his hands to tuck a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. "It should never, ever be a duty. I just hope that, one day, you'll come to see that."

"Mary said something similar to me this morning," she replies with a sad sort of smile.

"Well she's right," Tom tells her quietly before leaning in to kiss her again and gently encouraging her to lie backwards.

It's from that moment that everything changes - as the sudden thought of what they're about to do hits her, besides a racing heart and a slight bit of nausea, Sybil feels nothing and she soon realises that this isn't how it's meant to be. The weight of him on top of her suddenly makes her feel claustrophobic and the feel of his hands on her body through her nightgown feels like an invasion of her personal space.

"Tom," she says. "Tom, I can't... stop... please."

Tom sits up then and looks down upon his wife, almost hating himself for making her cry. "I'm sorry," he apologises. "Did I hurt you?"

Sybil shakes her head. "No," she sniffs. "And please, don't you be the one to apologise. It's me who should... I'm sorry, Tom, but I just can't do this. Not yet."

He pulls her up and into a fierce hug, rubbing soothing circles across her back and planting a kiss to her fragrant hair (it smells like lavender - his mother's favourite). "Shhh, it's alright," he says. "It's alright... I'm not going to force you into anything that you don't want to do. This is a big thing and, if you're not ready, then that's fine... we have the rest of our lives to work this out."

Sybil smiles at him tearfully. "Thank you," she replies. "For being so understanding. I don't think most men would be in your position."

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I'm not most men," Tom replies. "Look, I'm going to go for a walk," he tells her. "I won't go far, just round the hotel. It'll give you some time just to have a bath, relax, anything you please... it's been a long day and we have another early start in the morning."

"Alright," Sybil agrees. "But, I just want you to know, this doesn't mean that you can't sleep with me... this bed is as much yours as it is mine."

"We'll see," he replies and kisses her forehead affectionately before leaving her alone with nothing but her thoughts for company. Not sure what else to do, Sybil crawls under the sheets and cries herself to sleep...

She's been married less than a day and already she's failed as a wife.

**_-xxx-_**

When Tom returns an hour later, he goes into the bathroom to change into his pyjamas, smiling at the sight before him when he steps out into the bedroom of their suite. If he'd thought that Sybil had looked stunning all day, nothing could have prepared him for just how beautiful she looked when she was so completely at peace like this. Tiptoeing over to her side of the bed, he tucks the duvet tightly around her and quietly chuckles to himself as she buries her face even further into the pillow before tenderly pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Sweet dreams, Mrs Branson."


	11. La Belle et la Bête

_**Thank you once again for your kind words and amazing response to this story. I'm trying to get as many updates done as possible before I start my new job next month because I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write. This chapter almost feels like a bit of a filler, but the conversation over dinner sort of sets up what is to come in future chapters - call it Sybil and Tom's version of Mary's Perseus and Andromeda story, if you will. think I have used a bit of artistic license for this chapter and the next though because, even though I know women's suffrage was sort of but on the back burner during the war, I can't imagine that something so many people cared so much about would be completely forgotten about and there would be some still publically advocating the cause. If not, just roll with it, I think it works for the purpose of the plot. One last thing, I really want to make Sybil a massive cup of tea and give her a cuddle in this chapter, the poor lamb's feeling a bit lost. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

The newlyweds arrive in London the following afternoon, taking a taxi from King's Cross station to the Branson family home in Belgravia. Sybil is a Branson now, and so she supposes that this is her home too. It's a smart, whitewashed Georgian townhouse, not to dissimilar to Grantham House and that belonging to her Aunt Rosamund in Eaton Square but, from what she knows of Tom and his family, she fears that this is just a house and not a home.

Ever the dutiful husband (even if he has only been afforded the title for just over a day), Tom helps her out of the car after instructing the two footman who have come out to meet them which items of their luggage are to be taken to his wife's bedroom. Many of her belongings had remained at Downton, but there were a few familiar objects from her childhood room that had been sent to London along with most of her clothes a week or so earlier, wanting her old life to be kept separate from the old. Even though she had entered into this marriage of her own free will, the thought of leaving Yorkshire had saddened her and she knew that too many reminders of the place where she grew up could make her homesick and it would end up being even harder for her to adjust to life in the city.

"Welcome home," he smiles, squeezing her hand as they walk up the steps to the polished black front door with the shiny brass numbers glittering in the winter sun. "Come on, I'll give you the tour."

Everything in the grand hallway is black and white - from the tiled floors to the marble columns supporting the landing high above them. It's grand but, to Sybil, it feels hollow and empty and she doesn't like the way the sound of her heels clicking echoes around the place. It's not exactly where she would have chosen to begin her married life but, then again, how much of this whole affair had she wanted anyway?

**_-xxx-_**

The last room downstairs Tom had shown her was the library. It was nowhere near as impressive as either of Downton's, though Sybil realises that she's going to have to stop comparing everything here to there, and much of the furniture was covered with dust sheets. Tom had explained to her that nobody save for him really used it and, even then, he preferred to read elsewhere. Still, that hadn't meant that she was unable to find anything to spark her interest, and had retired to bed shortly after dinner (an awkwardly intimate affair just between she and her husband) claiming that it had been a hectic couple of days and she was very much in need of an early night. The bed feels strange, the mattress too hard and the ceiling unfamiliar as she gazes up at it, tracing the intricate patterns with her blue-grey eyes. She's not really thinking about anything in particular, though somehow manages to lose herself in those thoughts nonetheless, only to be torn out of them when she registers the sound of tapping on the door adjoining her room to Tom's, all of his belongings having been moved from his old room on account of his new status as a married man and the need to be closer to his wife.

"I thought I'd come and say goodnight," he says. "I'm sorry, I haven't woken you up or anything have I?"

Sybil shakes her head. "No," she replies. "I was just reading."

"Oh, alright," he replies, his lips curling up into the slightest hint of a smile. "Well... goodnight, Sybil."

"Goodnight, Tom."

And with that, for the second night running, husband and wife remain improperly married.

**_-xxx-_**

The weeks wear on and still Sybil and Tom choose to spend much of their time apart, only coming together at mealtimes and for strained conversation in the drawing room afterwards. Their marriage remains unconsummated, their sexual relationship (or lack thereof) becoming a topic of gossip in the servant's hall.

"There must be something wrong with her," one of the maids, Edna, says as she and some of the others take a break one afternoon.

Gwen frowns, disliking the way these people speak about her lady. "Why?"

Edna stares at her from over the rim of her teacup. "Because he's handsome, of course," she says. "Oh, don't pretend you haven't noticed."

The red head sits back in her chair and glares at the blonde. "I haven't, as it goes. It's not my place t'notice... it's not yours neither."

Edna raises her eyebrows. "Just because you're a lady's maid doesn't give you the right to lord it over me you know."

"I'm not, I just..."

"Is it true there were no blood on the sheets that morning in York?"

Gwen says nothing and takes a long, slow drink of her tea. She hadn't needed to see the evidence to know that Lady Sybil and Mr Branson weren't truly husband and wife - the young bride had broken down into floods of tears the second that Gwen had stepped into the room and confessed everything to her dearest friend. They had a bond between them, deeper than that which they felt between themselves and their own siblings, and there wasn't a cat in hell's chance that Gwen was going to betray that trust. "It's none of my business."

"But he slept in the bed."

She has no idea how the maid knows all of this, nor does she want to find out, but Gwen has learnt from the few short years she'd spent at Downton that, sometimes, the most dignified answer is silence.

"Or maybe they did and he found out that his sweet little English rose wasn't as pure as she looks..."

"They don't love each other!" Gwen snaps before she can stop herself.

Edna laughs. "You're a fool if you think love means anything in their world," she says, finishing the last of her tea and getting to her feet so as she can go and change for the afternoon. "But he knows where I am if he needs someone to fluff up his pillows."

**_-xxx-_**

Ted and Órlaith arrive back in London several days later, much to Sybil's delight. She adores her sister-in-law, and it's nice to have an added female presence during the daytime (as much as she enjoys Gwen's company, it's only during fleeting moments that the pair really get to spend any time together). Conversation at dinner flows much more easily on the evening of their return, talk turning to what they had been up to in Ireland to how Sybil is finding life in London.

"You have a wonderful library, Mr Branson," says Sybil to her father-in-law. "I've been keeping myself quite occupied having found so much to read these past few weeks."

"None of your propaganda, I hope?" he asks, turning to his son.

Tom shakes his head. "A husband shouldn't control what his wife reads," he replies. "In fact, a husband shouldn't control his wife at all. Though, if Sybil were interested, I'd be happy to point her in the direction of some good texts to start with."

"I'd like that," Sybil smiles at him from across the table. One of the things she's come to admire about her husband is his passion for the subjects that interest him.

"Really?"

"I would," she confirms. "I must admit, I do support the suffrage movement, but there was nobody to speak of it to back home. It'll be nice to have that luxury."

"Oh good," Ted mumbles under his breath as Alfred fills up his glass. "Another radical in the family."

Pretending not to have heard him, Sybil continues talking. "I know that Mrs Pankhurst has temporarily abandoned the cause, though perhaps abandoned is the wrong word, whilst there's a war on, but I hear that there are those who still fly the flag and speak to the people publically."

Órlaith nods. "How thrilling it must be to have heard one of her speeches," she says. "Though I suppose these will have to do for now."

Tom looks at his little sister and shakes his head. "Órlaith, please don't go to one of those."

"Why not?" the teenager protests. "I thought you were all for women getting the vote."

"I am," he replies. "I just don't want you going to those rallies."

"But you go."

"Yes, but that's different."

Órlaith drops her cutlery which clatters against her plate as she glares at her brother. "Why? Because you're a man?"

"I didn't mean it like..."

"So, Sybil," Órlaith interrupts, no longer wishing to have this conversation. "If my brother hasn't been trying to plant the seeds of revolution in your head, what have you been reading."

Sybil smiles at the girl, grateful to be included in the conversation once more. She's noticed it a few times today but, sometimes, it's almost as though they forget she's even there. "You mustn't laugh," she says. "But I've been reacquainting myself with some of my favourite stories from my childhood."

"Goodness," Ted chuckles. "You can't mean that we're to be expecting a new addition to the family so soon, can you?"

Tom's eyes, wide with shock, look to Sybil across the table. "Not at all, Father," he says.

"Pity."

"W...what I was saying," Sybil stutters, completely thrown off course. "Is that these stories were my favourites as a girl. I came across an old volume of a French tale called La Belle et La Bête. Have you heard of it?"

The two Branson men shake their heads, but Órlaith looks at her sister-in-law quizzically. "La Belle.. et la Bête... Beauty and the Beast?"

Sybil nods. "That's the one. A merchant with three daughters loses his fortune and can't give them the jewels and fine gowns that they wish for. However, the youngest, Belle, said that she would be happy merely with the gift of a rose, for none grew in their part of the country. On his way home, he stays the night at an old castle which does not appear to have an owner. Come morning, he discovers roses growing in the garden and takes one for his youngest daughter," she tells her now captive audience. "It's only then that he is confronted by a hideous beast who condemns the merchant to die for his crime. However, he manages to strike a deal with the Beast allowing him to go home and give the rose to his daughter on the premise that he would then return to the castle. Belle discovered her father's debt and travelled to the Beast's castle in his place, the master of the house receiving her graciously and looking after her, giving her lavish dresses and jewels, and conversed with her every night."

"Did he love her?" Órlaith asks, enjoying the story.

"He began to," she replies. "Each and every night, the Beast would ask Belle to marry him, but each time she refused. She'd dream of a handsome prince and soon became convinced that the Beast was hiding him in his castle, but she never found him."

"A fairy tale?" Ted scoffs. "And here was me thinking you were an intelligent woman."

Sybil ignores him and continues with the story. "Belle lived a life of luxury under the Beast's care, but she soon grew homesick and longed to see her sisters again. The Beast allowed it, but told her that she could only go for one week. Of course, her sisters persuaded her to stay but she soon felt guilty about leaving the Beast for she realised that she had come to love him. He was dying of a broken heart because he thought she'd abandoned him..."

"How tragic," says Órlaith. "Did he die?"

Sybil shakes her head, smiling up at the footman in thanks as he serves the dessert. "No. Confessing her love for him broke a curse that had been placed upon him for his selfishness during his youth. He transformed into the prince she'd dreamed of right before her very eyes."

"And they lived happily ever after?"

"And they lived happily ever after."

**_-xxx-_**

As he does every night, Tom appears at the door between both of their bedrooms to bid his wife goodnight. This evening though, he looks particularly perplexed by something or other, Sybil's suspicions only confirmed when he asks if he can come in.

"Is everything alright?" Sybil asks, looking up at him from where she's sat at her dressing table.

"Not really," he replies with a shake of his head. "What you said at dinner tonight concerns me."

Sybil's eyes follow him as he moves to sit down on the bed. "About what exactly."

"That story you told... about how it seemed appropriate."

"Oh."

"Sybil," he says, abandoning his position on the bed and sinking to his knees beside her. "Please don't think of me as some hideous beast who has you trapped here. Yes, I want to look after you and make sure that you're happy, but please don't feel as though you're some sort of prisoner." He puts his hand on her knee which startles her for a second as she's still so unused to his touch. "Go and visit your sisters if you wish. Invite them here... the thought of you being so unhappy kills me."

"I'm not unhappy," she protests, though the uncertainty in her voice is evident. "Really, I'm not. I'm just... this is a big change. I'm in a new city, a new house... it's hard."

"I know," he replies. "I come from Dublin... I moved here as a child having been taken away from everything I knew and love. It gets easier... you'll see."

She smiles faintly then as he stands and plants a soft kiss to her forehead. "Goodnight, Sybil."

"Goodnight, Tom."

**_-xxx-_**

February gives way to March and with it comes the first hint of spring. Just as Tom had said, life in London has begun to become easier for Sybil, especially now that she has found a friend in Órlaith. The young Irish girl has never had a sister before, and Sybil misses her own dearly and so it was natural that the pair should become close. Having never really been before, Sybil had agreed to take Órlaith to Selfridges, having become enamoured by the place during her season last summer, and so the pair are on their way to Oxford street when they come across a large crowd gathered in a nearby grassy space, many of them decked out in the colours of the WSPU.

"What is that?" Órlaith asks, craning her neck to get another view. "Do you think it's one of those rallies?"

"Could be," replies Sybil. "Come on, let's go and have a look."

"But Tom said..."  
Sybil waves her hand dismissively in a way that would make her grandmother proud. "Tom's not here," she says. "Come on, he never has to know."

Reluctantly, Órlaith takes her sister's hand and the pair dash across the road to see what all the fuss is about.

They should have heeded Tom's advice for, little do they know, they're walking straight into a death trap...


	12. Clearing the Air

_**I had hoped to get this chapter out sooner but I've been so busy these past few days and so I'm sorry. Thank you so much for your feedback - I can't believe we've hit the 100 review mark and we're only a fraction of the way through. Most of my stories only seem to scrape past that milestone in the final chapters so I am truly in shock. This chapter sees the issues in Tom and Sybil's marriage finally start to be addressed - it may seem like they're moving on quickly and that the change is drastic, but it's a plaster over a gaping wound in the grand scheme of things. They're in for a rough ride in this story, which I think makes the moments of happiness all the more worthwhile. What Tom tells Sybil about his work may seem a bit random now, but it will be important later in the story (also, we haven't seen the last of his mysterious friend either). So, without any further ado, I give you the next and by no means last chapter. Enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

Hundreds of people are gathered in the narrow road and Sybil's heart quickens as she and Órlaith are swallowed into the crowd, her sister's grip on her hand tightening as they try not to lose one another.

"If we lose each other, meet me by that tree over there," Sybil says, pointing to the left of the crowd.

Órlaith nods. "Don't leave me, will you?" she pleads, the panic in her voice already evident - she has an uneasy feeling about this, sensing the dangers that her brother warned them about, and yet Sybil is still eager and raring to go.

"I promise, I won't leave you," she replies. "Just keep hold of my hand and we'll be fine."

Finally finding a spot where she's not going to be jostled around too much and is able to keep her balance, Sybil wrinkles her nose as the smell of the crowd hits her for the first time - perspiration, tobacco smoke and a number of other scents invade her nostrils (she's convinced that it's the woman behind her who smells of fish). Órlaith, meanwhile, is terrified, there are numerous bodies closing in around her and she feels as though she can't breathe. Her palms are sweating and she's trembling with fear, flashbacks of that stormy night during her very first crossing to England, and how she'd been trapped in that too small cabin which had been pitch black and airless are flooding her mind. She hates this, and all she wants to do is go home.

"Sybil," she calls out, finding herself having to shout above the maddening crowd. "Sybil, I've changed my mind... I want to leave... please."

"Let's stay just a minute more."

"PLEASE!"

Sybil turns then to see the usually pale face of her sister-in-law looking almost green. There are beads of sweat trickling down her neck and she looks as though she's going to be sick. The elder of the two young women then realises that they really do have to get out of here, that they shouldn't have come in the first place and that these events really aren't as thrilling as she would once have believed.

"Alright, let's go."

Their plan of escape is thwarted as the shrill sound of a whistle cuts through the air - the police are here, and it's inevitable that all hell is going to break loose. "Oh God," Sybil thinks to herself. "What happens if we're arrested?" She's not terrified, far from it, but every nerve in her body is on fire, adrenaline courses through her veins and she feels her heart racing. A couple of uniformed officers barged through the crowd, wrestling all of those who try to put up a fight and one of the men who is barged out of the way hits Sybil with such force that she topples to the floor, hitting her head on the pavement below. She tries to curl herself into a ball, protecting herself from any further injury but it's no use - the world around her seems to be spinning and she's tired all of a sudden... so very, very tired. "So this is it," she thinks. "This is how it ends... I'm sorry, Tom. I really should have listened."

_**-xxx-**_

Órlaith keeps on running - well, moving as quickly as she can through the crowd as she looks for a way to escape. She pushes forward against the man standing in front of her but he moves suddenly and, the next thing she knows, she's falling. A hand tightens around her arm, pulling her upwards and preventing her from being swallowed up by the crowd. She panics again, having only just regained her composure, and is certain that she's being arrested.

"Move," a deep voice commands and she suspects he's trying to get her out of the crowd before putting her in handcuffs. She manages to turn her head and glance down at his arm, but there are no stripes on the cuffs of his dark coat. He's a plain clothes officer, it's the only explanation.

"Let go of me!" she yells, trying to wriggle her arm free of her grasp and he does for a second, only to hold out his hand out to her.

"Take my hand."

Órlaith just stands there motionless, the crowd still jostling her about.

"I said, take my hand!" There's an urgency to his voice which Órlaith finds herself obeying and takes hold of the offered hand before dragging her through the mass of bodies and out into the open air where she can breathe at last. They keep on running until they're well clear of the commotion and she slumps down against the railings to catch her breath. He must be giving her a moment before he arrests her - that'll no doubt be the only kindness she'll know for the foreseeable future. The man takes off his hat then, one that she hadn't even noticed he'd been wearing what with her mind being otherwise preoccupied and she finds herself unable to contain her gasp of surprise as he turns to look at her with a face more handsome than she's ever seen before.

"Are you alright?" he asks in a lyrical Welsh accent.

"I will be," she replies. "Until you arrest me."

"Arrest you? Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a policeman... aren't you?"

The man shakes his head. "No, I'm not," he tells her. "Just a man doing a good deed for a damsel in distress."

"I'm not a damsel," she protests. "And I'm not in distress either. I... Sybil."

"Beg pardon?"

"My sister," she says quietly, the colour draining from her face. "My sister's still in there... you have to help her!"

The man steps forward and takes hold of her shoulders in an attempt to calm her down before she can have a full blown panic attack. "It's alright," he says soothingly. "It's alright. What does she look like? I'll go back and see if I can see her."

"Dark hair... bit taller than me... blue hat and coat."

"And her name's Sybil?"

Órlaith nods. "Sybil Branson."

"I'll find her," he says confidently. "You just stay here and I'll come back. My friend will look after you... Jimmy!" he calls out to a man in a light coloured mackintosh who too looks like he's been caught up in the mêlée.

Órlaith swallows hard when the second man's face comes into view. His name isn't Jimmy, nor is he unfamiliar too her...

"Órlaith?"  
"Tommy," she cries, unable to prevent her tears from falling any longer. "Tommy, I'm sorry... I've lost Sybil."

_**-xxx-**_

Sybil had vaguely been aware of a pair of strong arms lifting her up from the floor and the warm trickle of blood down the side of her face as her head lolls back and she surrenders to the darkness, only to come around what she presumes must be sometime later on her bed in the safety of her home.

"Here now," the familiar and comforting voice of her ever faithful maid says to her. "You're alright, milady. Stay still, this is going t'hurt."

Sybil winces and hisses as whatever Gwen applies to the cut on her forehead stings. She has a pounding headache and every bone in her body hurts. "Is it bad?" she asks, her voice hoarse and it feels like a gargantuan effort just to utter those three little words.

"Looks worse than it is," Gwen replies. "But you gave us all a right fright."

"Sorry," Sybil apologises, knowing that it certainly won't be the last time she has to do so this evening. "How is Órlaith?"

"Miss Branson's fine," she tells her. "A bit shaken up and both Mr Bransons gave her a good talking to, but I think they're just glad she's safe."

Sybil allows her eyes to adjust to the light and looks at the maid sadly. "I daresay that I'm to receive the same reprimand. Actually, mine may be worse... it was my idea."

"Mr Branson did ask me to let him know when you were awake," says Gwen. "I can tell him you've gone back to sleep."

Sybil shakes her head - a bad idea as it only increases the pain. "No," she says. "No I think it's better to get it over and done with."

Gwen clears up after herself before leaving her lady alone for a few moments as she somewhat nervously awaits the arrival of her husband. As Sybil had already admitted, the whole misadventure was her idea and that Órlaith should not have any of the blame thrust upon her - she would stand her ground and clear her sister's name, whatever the consequences would be for her relationships with the other members of this family.

"You've rejoined the land of the living, I see," Tom says as he closes the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"

Sybil closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the pillows for a second."Awful," she replies. "Like I've been hit by a train."

"You're damn lucky, you know that?" he tells her. "Both of you... My God, Sybil, how could you have been so stupid?"

His wife sighs. "I know, I'm sorry..."

"No you **don't **know. If you did then you wouldn't have done it."

"Perhaps," she admits, seeing his point. "But I do know that you're angry with me."

Tom shakes his head. "I'm not angry," he corrects. "I'm just disappointed."

"That's far worse," Sybil replies. "I'd much rather you were angry."

"I thought I would be," says Tom. "But seeing the state the two of you were in, I was so worried... I'm just relieved you're both safe and that's enough to not make me feel angry. I just wish you would have trusted me enough to believe what I said when I told you that those things could be dangerous..."

"My curiosity got the better of me," Sybil tells her husband, unable to meet his eyes as she picks at a loose thread on the duvet. "It's a habit of mine that's got me into trouble since childhood."

Tom moves to sit down in the chair at her bedside. "And that's one of the things I admire about you," he tells her. "You want to learn, to understand more about the world around you but... bloody hell, you absolutely terrified me today. I could have lost you." He reaches out and takes her hand in his then, smiling when she doesn't flinch. "I suppose it's just a good job I was in the right place at the right time."

It was almost as though he'd gotten his hopes up too soon when Sybil pulls her hand away from his and stares at him with a quizzical look on her face. "You were there?"

"Yes."

"Hang on a second," she protests. "How is it alright that **you **were there, but Órlaith and I are forbidden?"

"Because," Tom says, running a hand through his hair as he takes a moment to come up with a good explanation. "Because I had to be there... it was my job to be there."

"Your father sent you?"

He shakes his head. "No. It was for my... other job."

"I don't understand."

"I'm a journalist, Sybil," he tells her at last. "That's what I do. It's where I spend most of my time. Father doesn't know, he'd never approve so I've been using a nom de plume and I know it's one you've heard of... I'm J P Mulligan."

Sybil has indeed heard of J P Mulligan - a political correspondent for one of the city's smaller newspapers, one which Tom was particularly fond of as it championed the people and his socialist principles. She had to admit, there was something rather romantic about Mulligan's prose and the way he wrote about such serious issues with passion and conviction had caused her to develop a little bit of a crush on the ambiguous poet of the people and now to discover that she was actually married to the man himself was something of a shock indeed.

"You never said."

"Because you don't seem interested," he tells her sincerely. "And I think that's where the issue in our marriage lies."

"Issue?"

"Don't pretend you haven't noticed. We spend much of our time apart and, when we're together, you seem distant and aloof... it's almost as if you don't care."

"I **do** care... I care a very great deal."

"Well, in all honesty, it doesn't feel like it," says Tom, finally getting everything that he's wanted to say for so very long off his chest. "What happened, Sybil? You seemed so enthusiastic, well, as enthusiastic as you could have been given the circumstances, when we got engaged at Christmas. What changed? Am I really such a monster? You did tell that story at dinner..."

"I was afraid," she whispers. "The closer the wedding got, the more I started to have my doubts. It had nothing to do with you, nothing at all, but I just couldn't help but wonder if we were doing the right thing... something didn't feel quite right somehow, though I could put my finger on just what that was. "  
Tom looks at her then, his heart aching when he sees just how upset she looks. This is quite clearly something they've needed to talk about, but both have just being dancing round it for too long now and it's about time they faced their problems head on. "So why didn't you say anything?" he asks. "We could have put the wedding off... we needn't have gone through with it all."

"Because, as I said, I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Disappointing people," she admits at last. "Because letting everyone down would be my greatest unhappiness."

"And are you? Unhappy I mean."

"Yes," she tells him. "Because I feel as though I've done exactly that. I didn't mean to be so cold, so unfeeling. It was never my intention to push you aside or make it seem as though I didn't care because I do... I love Órlaith as one of my own sisters and you... Tom, I care for you so much. I know it's not the most romantic thing to say, but it's **something** and I just want to be a good wife. But I need you to be a good husband... I know you're trying, evidently much harder than I am, but I feel as though I hardly see you and yet, when I do, we have **nothing** to talk about."

Tom sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "You're right," he says. "This works both ways and I don't think either of us have given the other the attention they deserve. My wife is a stranger to me, just as I am to you and... my God, I hate that. I'm not expecting us to ever fall madly, passionately in love, but I really think we need to start again. What happened today made me realise just how much I care for you and I honestly don't know what I'd do without you. You haven't let anyone down, least of all me, so please don't be unhappy because I couldn't bear that... I know I've told you that before, but it's true."

Sybil looks down to see that he's taken her hand in his again and is soothingly running his thumb across her knuckles. Tearfully, she looks up at him and smiles. "Kiss me."

It's not a question, nor is it a command, but both of them know that it's what they need. Tom leans forward caressing her cheek and brushing away her tears with his thumb. His eyes look straight into hers, his gaze flicking down to her lips and then to her eyes again. Sybil's heart is racing, there are butterflies in her stomach and she can feel his breath on her skin which makes her tingle all over. So much remains unsaid between them, yet this kiss conveys more than words ever could - it is an apology, a promise and a new beginning all rolled into one. The first time Sybil had kissed him she felt nothing and even now there is no deep, romantic love, no passion or lust...

But what there is is hope.

**_-xxx-_**

She wakes the following morning feeling much as she had done the previous night - everything hurts and she doesn't think she's capable of moving so much as an eyelid. It's only then that she registers the hard mass beneath her head and upper body, something which is a stark contrast to the softness of the mattress. Opening her eyes, she smiles at the sight that greets her and, suddenly, she remembers. Tom had stayed with her last night. They'd rung for tea and just sat and talked about nothing in particular, just about anything and everything as they had done in their letters before their engagement. He'd made her laugh which had hurt but it was worth it, just to finally feel as though things were normal... as though things should be between a husband and wife. He'd wanted to leave and let her get some rest, but she'd begged him to stay and he'd gone into his own bedroom to change into his pyjamas before returning and climbing into bed beside her. It had been strange at first, but they'd soon found a position they were comfortable in with Sybil lying with her head resting on his chest and her arms around his middle and his around her shoulders. They'd talked some more until, finally, they'd drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning.

"Good morning," he croaks, unused to finding himself in a bed not his own. "Sleep well?"

Sybil nods. "I did, actually," she says. "The best I've slept in a long time."

"Good, I'm glad," he smiles. "How's the head?"

"Sore," she replies and props herself up on his chest. "But I suppose it's my own fault."

"You won't be running off to any more rallies in a hurry?"

"No," Sybil assures him. "Definitely not."

Tom smiles and leans in to kiss her, but the door opens before he can and in walks Gwen with a breakfast tray for Sybil.

"I'm sorry, milady... Mr Branson... I..."

"Oh, no," Sybil says, sitting up properly and pulling the sheet up around her. "It's fine, it's not..."

Dutifully, the maid bows her head and sets the tray down before immediately taking her leave.

"It's not funny!" Sybil chides as Tom sniggers, prodding him in the ribs. "She was mortified."

"We weren't doing anything wrong."

"I know, but..."

"Besides, this is our bedroom, we're married and there's no need to explain ourselves."

Sybil cocks an eyebrow. "**Our** bedroom?"

"Well... I mean... that is..."

"Tom, if you want to stay, stay," she says. "In fact, I'd like it if you did."

Tom smiles - it really does feel as though the air has been cleared after last night and they can move forward in their lives together. "I'd like it if I did too," he says before reaching over and swiping a slice of toast from the tray on the bedside table and giving her a cheeky grin that she hasn't got it in her heart to reprimand him for.

**_-xxx-_**

Tom has suggested that they go away for a couple of days, head down to the seaside or out to the country just to spend some time alone together - he longed for her to see Ireland, but his commitments under the guise of J P Mulligan didn't leave him much time for gallivanting off on a jolly and Sybil had reminded him that Mary would be coming down to London soon and wanted Sybil to go shopping for things for the baby with her. In the end, they'd decided that they would definitely go somewhere later in the year but that they should find a project to undertake together in the meantime - they'd decided on the library, their mutual love of books and reading meaning that they found it sad that what could otherwise be such a beautiful room had been abandoned for so long. It didn't look as though it would require much work, just the removal of all the dust sheets and the place being cleaned from top to toe, but Tom had admitted that he wasn't sure what exactly they had in their collection, having acquired the majority of the books when they'd bought the house all those years ago. Though there is one surprise hidden in the library that neither of them could have ever imagined that they'd find - it's not a rare first edition or a priceless family heirloom, but a room. It was Sybil who had found it, having been closely inspecting some of the older volumes on one of the shelves when she spots a gap big enough to slide her fingers into. Her instinct tells her to pull and, sure enough, with a large amount of dust displacement, the shelf moves, swinging back on concealed hinges to reveal a small nook behind it, complete with a fireplace and what looked to be an old daybed.

"Tom," she calls. "Come and see this."

Her husband moves to stand behind her, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he looks at her discovery. "I wonder how long it's been left like this?"

"Since well before you moved in," she supposes. "It's in a worse state than the library. Perhaps it was somebody's secret... somewhere where they could hide away from the rest of the world and just read and drink tea, forgetting about their problems just for a little while. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have such a place?"

Tom nods. "Indeed it would," he says, an idea forming in his head. It's her birthday in a couple of weeks and he has no idea what to get her...

Or at least he didn't until now.


	13. It Feels Like the First Time

_**Sorry this has taken me so long, I've had a chaotic week and have been working on updating my other stories too. This chapter gets a bit 'M' rated towards the end, so I think you can probably guess what FINALLY happens and I think you'll agree with me that it's long overdue. I haven't decided whether or not to up the rating of the whole fic yet but we'll see. I'm stunned by just how well this story has been received and your feedback has been amazing. I'm starting full-time work for the first time on Monday, so you may be seeing a lot less of me as I'll only really have the weekends available in which to write. For now though, enjoy and please let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

She realises now that it could have been so much worse.

She could have ended up with a man who liked to drink, who would abandon her in favour of a mistress or, God forbid, a man who would beat her as she'd heard that some of the husbands of the girls her sisters had come out with did.

Tom Branson is none of those things.

When she sits back and thinks about it, Sybil is amazed at just how far they've come in recent weeks. Since the night she had been injured at the rally and they'd finally voiced all of their issues and concerns, things have been much better between them. They've thrown themselves into the renovation of the library, so very close to completion now and a place where they spend much of their time alone together. They've both taken great interest in what the other likes to read and their opinions on current affairs, what they think of the war that rages across the sea and the politics behind it. It feels more like a marriage now and less of a business deal, though there are still numerous issues that they have to contend with, and neither had realised just how much of one Ted would be having grown so accustomed to his absence.

She sees Tom's wide-eyed reaction to his father's latest barb - she's not really paying much attention to what Edward is saying, but she's sure she hears something about how Kieran would have done much better. It's the same old story and, while she sometimes doubts her father's affections for her, she knows that he would never belittle her in the way that Ted does to Tom. She knows that he's insecure, he'd confessed as much when they'd lay awake one night talking, and all his bravado whenever they're in the company of others is just an act - it's his way of putting on a mask so that nobody can see just how much his father's putdowns have affected him over the years. Sybil can see straight through it though, and she knows that there's still a part of him who is that same boy who had read Treasure Island aloud to her that summer so many years ago, who had carried her back to the house when she had fallen asleep against his shoulder and who had first called himself her friend.

Her husband stares down at his plate and she feels a twinge of pity in her stomach, knowing exactly how it feels to be thought of as not being good enough. She's heard what they say about her behind her back when they think she can't hear - the women gossip and say that she must be barren, for how can a pretty thing such as her not entice her husband and thus do her wifely duty? Her father-in-law continually makes a point of declaring his disappointment that she hasn't yet given his empire and heir and, while she knows it's ridiculous, it makes her feel less of a woman. She hates the fact that her ability to reproduce is the only thing that seems to make her worth something and the fact that the initial idea when it came to her marriage was to trade like a broodmare at a market would forever remain unforgivable…

But Tom sees her as more than that - he treats her as his equal, as his friend and, maybe someday, as the love of his life also.

She offers a sympathetic smile in his direction then and she can no longer deny that there is most definitely something there that wasn't there before.

**_-xxx-_**

Tom wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, but the evident redness is a dead giveaway as to what he's been doing in the solace of his bedroom.

"I'm fine," he says, though his wife can see straight through his lies.

"Tom," she pleads. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

Sybil sighs and sits down beside him on the bed. "Crying does not indicate that you are weak," she says, reaching out to caress his cheek. "Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive."

"That's from Jane Eyre."

"I didn't think you cared much for novels?"

"I don't," he replies. "Or rather I didn't... not until I married you."

Sybil smiles and can't help but blush slightly, knowing that he means it as a compliment and she's never really been good at knowing how to react to those. "We're an odd pair, aren't we?" she asks as he drops his head to lean on her shoulder, the fine strands of his light brown hair tickling the exposed skin of her neck.

"Mmm," he murmurs in agreement. "But I think we're doing just fine, all things considered."

"So do I," she replies. "So, are you going to tell me what it is that's troubling you?"

Tom lies back on the bed and groans in frustration. "I'm just never going to be good enough for him," he says and she knows exactly who he's talking about. "The way he talks to me, criticising my every move. I know he wishes that I was the one who had died and that Kieran had lived..."

"Don't say that!" Sybil chides. "Please, don't ever say something like that. You are his son, and I don't think that even he has a heart black enough to wish death on any of his children. He loves you, I know he does... he just has an odd way of showing it."

"And what about you?" he asks in little more than a whisper. "Do you love me?"

"I..."

"Because I adore you, Sybil," he tells her. "I've come to realise that these past few weeks and I'm sorry that it's taken so long. You've brought sunshine back into my life and I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness in thanks."

Unsure what else to say, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him passionately. It's not long before hands begin to wander, just as they have done most nights since they started sharing a bed, but never do they go much further with the physical side of their relationship than this. They both know that they want to take the next step and finally consummate their marriage, but their wedding night would have been something special and so this must be as well. They're just waiting for the right time.

Sybil yelps and jerks back from him as his hand comes up to squeeze her breast through her nightgown. "Ow," she says, rubbing at the affected area.

"I'm sorry," Tom apologises. "I didn't mean..."

"It's alright," she says, taking hold of his hand. "It's just that... well, how can I put this? Everything is a little bit... sensitive... right now. Probably a good thing really, lest we get too carried away."

Tom furrows his brow. "I don't understand."

Sybil blushes, though she supposes that she knew that they would have to have this conversation at some point. "I umm... there's a time when I..."

"Oh," Tom interrupts, choosing his moment wisely so as not to embarrass her further. "I see... yes, well... umm."

"Do you?"

"I do," he replies. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she smiles. "Well, not completely fine but I suppose I'm used to it now."

"Is it awful?"

The blush on her cheeks darkens and she can't imagine many women having such a conversation with their husbands. "Sometimes... every second Sunday without fail. Four days... give or take."

"I'm glad you told me," he says. "I'm glad you feel as though you can tell me."

"I'm glad I can too," replies Sybil, giving his hand a squeeze. "You're a forward thinking man, Tom Branson. I had a feeling you wouldn't be put off by talk of such... delicate issues."  
They both laugh then and Tom pulls her into a tight hug. "Then we'll make each other better. It's Saturday tomorrow, we could stay in bed and have tea in the morning reading the newspapers."

Sybil smiles. "I'd like that," she says. "I'd like that very much."

**_-xxx-_**

Sybil's birthday is a very quiet affair - she goes out to tea with her mother and sisters who have come to London to visit before going shopping with Mary as promised to look for things for the baby. She returns home to find herself pleasantly surprised to see Tom and Órlaith (Ted was in Manchester on business) dressed in their finery - the former even going so far as to wear white tie, for which he declared that she was "completely worth the discomfort" - having had their cook prepare all her favourite foods in celebration. Her sister-in-law excuses herself early and slips off to bed, leaving Sybil and her husband to have some much needed time to themselves in the library.

"Thank you for my birthday presents," she smiles as they lie cuddled up to each other, taking it in turns to read aloud to each other. "I love the books... and the necklace is beautiful."

Tom and Órlaith had presented her with some rare first editions of some of her favourite books and newer copies of ones which she'd read so much that they were beginning to fall apart. Another, rather generous, gift from Tom alone had been a stunning antique diamond and aquamarine necklace which he'd come across in one of the auction houses where he'd found the books - he suspected that it was worth far less than what he'd paid, but none of that really mattered once he'd seen how happy she was when she'd opened the box, her smile shining brighter than the diamonds themselves.

"I'm glad you liked them," he smiles. "And that necklace brings out the colour of your eyes... you look lovely in blue, have I ever told you that?"

Sybil nods. "Once or twice," she says. "But it's nice to hear nonetheless."

"I have one more present for you though," Tom tells her, encouraging her to sit up before getting to his feet and holding out his hand to her. "Come with me... but close your eyes."

Sybil looks at him sceptically before doing as he asks, following him across the library until they reach the doorway to the secret nook. She'd tried to get in there, but had been disappointed to find that the entrance had been blocked with numerous boxes piled so high that she couldn't see over them.

"Alright, you can open them now."

"Oh, Tom," she gasps. "This is wonderful!" The sight before her eyes is more beautiful than anything she's ever seen before. Much like the library, the nook has been cleaned from top to bottom, there are new fabrics in various shades of blue upholstering the furnishings and the daybed is all made up. There are bookshelves lining the entire back wall and the warm glow of the fire and the dozens of candles scattered across every surface makes the place look homely and inviting.

"Happy birthday," he replies, popping the cork on the bottle of champagne he'd left chilling in an ice bucket beside a bowl of juicy looking strawberries. "You said that you wondered what it would be like to have your own secret hideaway, so now you have one."

Sybil looks at him and smiles. "You did all this for me?"

Tom nods. "Órlaith picked out the colours, I'm afraid I'm not too good when it comes to that sort of thing. But, other than that, yes, I did do all this for you."

His wife clinks her glass against his. "Thank you," she says. "It's perfect."

-xxx-

Nestled together on the daybed, they feed each other strawberries and somehow manage to drink an entire bottle of champagne between them. Thankfully though, Tom had thought ahead on that score, and had stowed another one away. The bubbles have gone straight to their heads and they find themselves laughing and giggling over everything, occasionally managing to calm themselves down enough to share a kiss or two.

"Tom," Sybil says, tugging on his bowtie. "I know you said that this room was mine, but I'd really like it if you shared it with me."

Her husband smiles. "A private hideaway for just my beautiful wife and I? How could any man in his right mind refuse such an offer?"

Sybil presses her fingertip to his lips before he can kiss her again. "But that's just it," she says quietly. "I'm still not your wife, not properly but... I'd very much like to be."

It doesn't take long for Tom to realise what she's suggesting. "Are you certain?"

"Positive."

"Here?"

"Here... and now."

He doesn't need any further encouragement and kisses her so passionately that it steals her breath away. Hands wander and fingers fumble as they set about ridding each other of their clothing, various items falling to the floor and being tossed aside like all their fears had been. They are baring their souls to each other just as much as they are their bodies as, finally, they're both stripped down to their underwear - Sybil just in her knickers and Tom in his underpants - pausing for a moment just to admire each other in the candlelight.

The very sight of her leaves him feeling like that timid virgin who hadn't been sure where to put his hands or what to say that first time he'd made love to a woman. Actually, come to think of it, neither of them had quite known what to do back then and he wonders if it's wrong of him to be thankful that his experiences with Bronagh can make this as pleasurable for his wife as possible.

Sybil sighs as he tentatively caresses her breasts, teasing her rosy nipples and pinching one of them between his thumb and forefinger, making her gasp in pleasure. She's never known anything quite like this before, but she's certain that this is only the beginning.

"Do you like that?"

She nods. "Mmm... yes."

"Then tell me," says Tom. "Tell me what feels good and what doesn't. I want you to enjoy this."

Feeling rather bold, Sybil manages to catch him off guard and rolls them both over before starting to kiss down his torso, probing his belly button with her tongue which makes him laugh.

"Ticklish?"

"I'll never admit to it," he says, reaching down to stroke her hair. "You'll just use it against me."

Sybil chuckles. "I'll take that as a yes then," she replies and repeats the action.

"Stop that, you minx."

She crawls back up his body until she's looking him right in the eyes and presses her nose to his. "Or what?"

She squeals as he flips her over onto her back again and starts tickling her sides. "See, it's not very nice, is it?"

"Stop!" she protests as she giggles, managing to grab hold of his wrists and pinning them to her bare stomach.

"Nervous?" asks Tom.

Sybil shakes her head. "No," she replies. "No... Make love to me, Tom. I think we've waited long enough."

Tom smiles at her and, reciprocating her actions from just a moment ago, begins peppering tiny kisses down her body. He pauses when he gets to her belly button and grins against her alabaster skin, his beautiful blue eyes glittering mischievously. Just as she thinks he's going to give her a taste of her own medicine, Sybil is pleasantly surprised when he continues his journey southwards until he comes to the silk of her knickers. Hooking his fingers under the waistband, he pulls them down her impossibly long legs and carelessly tosses them aside to land in the pile with the rest of their clothing. He caresses her calves tenderly - first one leg and then the other, helping her to relax before moving up to kiss her thighs. With a little encouragement, she parts her legs and gives him enough room to settle between them, looking up at her tenderly as much to say "trust me". He leans forward and runs his tongue so painfully slowly across her most intimate area, causing Sybil to take a sharp intake of breath and tightly grip the edge of the mattress with one hand and the pillow beneath her head with the other. She gasps and moans as he licks and sucks at her clitoris, slowly pushing one of his fingers into her and making her writhe with pleasure as she hurtles towards something which, up until now, has been a complete mystery to her. Sybil feels as though she's flying - soaring higher than ever before as she cries out her husband's name and moves one of her hands down to pull roughly at his hair.

"I've never felt anything like that before in my life," she pants, turning her head to the side to look at him as he moves to lie beside her. "It was incredible."

Tom smiles and reaches out to caress her cheek. "I'm glad. Do you still..."

Sybil groans. "Yes," she interrupts. "I've told you, I'm ready. I think we both are."

The couple share a long, languid kiss then as he rolls on top of her and, together, they manage to push down his underwear. Sybil's legs instinctively move to wrap around his hips and she gasps as she feels his arousal pressing against her. He reaches down between them, positioning himself at her entrance and pushing into her ever so slowly, his eyes never once leaving hers as he tries to gage her reaction, looking for any sign of pain or discomfort on her part.

Sybil digs her nails into the skin of his shoulders, biting down on her lip as her body accepts him for the first time. "I'm fine," she assures him, seeing the concerned look upon his face. "Don't stop."

Once fully inside of her, they lie still for a moment, kissing and caressing each other as the initial discomfort subsides. It's clumsy at first but, eventually, their hips rock in tandem as they begin to master the steps to this most intimate of dances, finding a rhythm all of their own. Tom glances down at her; her eyes are screwed shut, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' as she moaned with pleasure.

Somehow sensing that she's being watched, Sybil opens her eyes and smiles up at her husband as they continue to move as one. "I love you," she says, her breathing getting faster and shallower. "Oh, darling, I love you so much."

Unable to find the right words in English to return her sentiment, Tom mumbles something incoherently in Gaeilge, the tongue of his forefathers, and thrusts harder and deeper into her, bringing them both closer and closer to nirvana. Their hands find each other's somewhere above her head, fingers lacing together as they gasp and moan, shattering with cries so loud that they've probably woken the entire house.

Breathless and sated, Tom collapses on top of her though is mindful not to crush her under his weight. Sybil sighs and hums contentedly as she plays with his hair. "Thank you," she says. "For being so patient with me... for waiting."

"It was worth it," he smiles.

"Call me a hopeless romantic, but I don't think it would have been as good as that if we'd done it on our wedding night."

Tom props himself up on his elbow and begins tracing abstract patterns across her stomach. "So it was good then?"

Sybil's lips curl up into a smile. "It was wonderful."

"So we can do it again then?" he asks cheekily

Sybil laughs, though it quickly turns into a yawn as she suddenly feels absolutely exhausted. "Of course," she replies. "Just... not now. I'm tired."

"Come here," Tom says, lifting up his arm so that she can cuddle up to his chest. His wife obliges and snuggles into him as he wraps her in his embrace. "Sybil?"  
"Mmm?"

"Did I... did I hurt you at all?"

"A little, though only at first," she confesses. "I expected it to though and it won't always be that way... Tom?"

"Mmm?"

"What did you say? After I told you that I love you?"

His lips curl up into a smile. "M'aingael," he repeats. "M'aingael, tá grá agam duit."

"What does that mean?"

"My angel," he translates. "My angel, I love you."

And so it is that, right there among some of the greatest love stories of all time, a new chapter in another begins. They've already travelled down such a long road to get to where they are, but there are so many trials and tribulations left to face which will test the very foundations of the life they've begun to build together and the love they've found within it...

Only time will tell if they have the strength to weather the storm.


	14. Count Your Blessings

_**Hello again. I'm sorry for the delay but I started my new job this week (which is amazing and I think I'm going to love it) so I've not had much time or energy for writing. This isn't a very long chapter, nor does very much happen but it's an important chapter for bridging the next phase of the story. You may have noticed that I've upped the rating to M - that is on account of the smut, I suppose, but there isn't all that much of that. Stuff happens later on which is quite... graphic... and I'd rather lose readers who aren't into M rated stories now than when we're at what I think will be the best part. So, on with the show - enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

**June**

The early morning sunshine creeps in through the slight gap in the curtains and Tom winces as the bright light hurts his eyes. He drops his head back to the pillow and smiles to himself at the sight of his wife still sleeping beside him, their legs still entwined where they'd fallen asleep cuddled against each other the night before.

Sybil stirs and looks up at him with a dreamy smile, adoring how he has now become the first thing she sees every morning. "Good morning," she says, stretching out her limbs and stifling a yawn.

"Morning," he replies, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him.

"Last night was wonderful," Sybil says as she buries her face into the crook of his shoulder. They've become much bolder with their lovemaking in recent weeks, finally at ease enough and each familiar with the other's body, as well as the desires their own craves. Sybil had never known that there were so many different ways to make love, having always been brought up to believe that it was a wifely duty and nothing more. With Tom though, she has learnt that it is so much more than that - it saddens her that there are women who will never experience anything quite like what she shares with her own husband in their marriages and she counts her blessings each and every day that she is to spend the rest of her life with a man who has come to love and respect her as much as she has him.

"I know," he replies with that wonderfully cocky smile of his. "I was there."

Sybil playfully swats his chest with her and shakes her head. "Don't get smart with me, Mr Branson."

Tom cocks an eyebrow at her. "Or what?"

"Or... I'll have to punish you," she teases, looking up at him with a mischievous glimmer in her big blue eyes.

"Mmm... and how exactly do you plan to do that?" her husband asks, nuzzling his nose against hers.

"We're never going to do what we did last night ever again." Sybil replies playfully.

Tom chuckles. "Love, we did an awful lot of things last night," he says. "You'll have to be a bit more specific."

Sybil rolls onto her back and looks up at the ceiling, the thin cotton sheet just about covering her. "As your husbandly duty," she begins. "I think you should remind me of those things because, you're absolutely right. There were rather a lot of them and I can't seem to remember them all. I need to know which ones we shan't do anymore so that I can punish you properly." She squeals then as Tom rolls on top of her and she reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair as he kisses her.

"As my lady commands," he says, snaking one of his hands down between their bodies until he reaches her most intimate spot, teasing her with his skilled and nimble fingers which makes her gasp with pleasure.

"Oh, stop teasing," she giggles.

"What do you want?" he purrs into her ear, continuing his ministrations.

Sybil looks him straight in the eyes and bites her bottom lip. "You," she says quietly. "All of you."

Tom moves his hand and Sybil's legs instinctively wrap around his hips, both of them moaning loudly as he pushes into her. She arches her back up off the bed, trying to get as close as humanly possible to him and feeling completely helpless as they settle into a familiar rhythm and surrender themselves to the pleasure that only being with each other can bring. Eventually, it all becomes too much and they come apart together, basking in their post coital glow as they come down from their mutual high.

"Does that refresh your memory?" Tom asks as he rolls to the side of her so as not to continue crushing her under his weight.

Sybil nods and reaches out to caress his stubbled cheek. "It's a start," she smirks. "But I think I'm going to have to find another way to punish you. I'm not sure I could live without it

Tom chuckles. "I love you."

"I love you too," she whispers. "More than I ever thought possible."

The couple share a long and languid kiss, only to be interrupted by a series of short sharp knocks at the bedroom door.

"It can't be Gwen," Sybil says as they pull apart. "She usually just comes in."

Tom groans as there's another knock. "Can't a man make love to his wife in peace?"

Sybil sighs and nods in agreement. "We should think about going away for a couple of days... just the two of us," she suggests as she watches her frustrated husband kick back the sheets and leave the sanctuary of their bed, covering himself up with his dressing gown as he heads for the door.

"I'm sorry, Sir," a rather flustered Alfred says, sensing that he's just interrupted a somewhat intimate moment. "But an urgent telegram just arrived for Lady Sybil."

"Thank you, Alfred," he says. "I'll pass it on. Would you tell my sister that I'll be down for breakfast shortly?"  
The footman nods. "I will, sir."

Tom shuts the door again and crosses the room, handing the envelope to Sybil before stripping himself of his clothing again so as he can get dressed, neither really giving a fig for modesty around the other anymore. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry..."

Sybil gasps, cutting him off mid-sentence. "It's from Cousin Isobel," she says, looking up at him with a bright and beautiful smile. "Mary had the baby last night. A little early, but they're both doing well."

"That's wonderful," Tom replies, equally as delighted with the news that he is now an uncle for the first time. "What did she have?"

"It doesn't say," says Sybil. "Oh, Tom, can we go up and see her?"

Her husband nods. "I think that's a grand idea," he says. "We could go up this afternoon. I know we won't be alone, but you did just say we should think about getting out of London for a couple of days."

"I'd like that," she replies. "I'll telephone as soon as I come downstairs. Are you sure you can spare the time?"

"Of course," he replies. "My father's around at the moment so I can't see him needing me much and I can always post anything I write to my editor from Downton."

And so it seems that they have a plan - it'll be the first time they've travelled north since the wedding and Sybil is very much looking forward to seeing her family again, especially now that there's a new addition to the Crawley clan.

**_-xxx-_**

It's unexpected and incredibly short notice, but Cora is overjoyed that her daughter will finally be coming home. From Sybil's letters, she can tell that something has changed between her youngest and her husband and it's clear that the pair are incredibly fond of each other these days. The Countess has been fond of Tom since he was a child, but she is most certainly looking forward to welcoming him into her home as her son-in-law, especially on this most joyous of days.

Tom stands aside, smiling to himself as she watches Sybil embrace her family. He wishes that he could have taken her away from here on happier terms all those months ago but, that being said, he wouldn't change what they have now for the world. The only real notable absence is that of Matthew who is still over in France, though the new father was immediately informed and would no doubt be trying to secure leave at the earliest available opportunity the second he received the telegram. Sybil excuses herself rather quickly, desperately wishing to see her sister, and leaves Tom to bond with his in-laws.

The sight that greets her absolutely warms her heart - Mary is sitting upright in bed, staring into the bundle of blankets in her arms with a look of pure adoration on her face.

"I thought you'd both be asleep," Sybil says quietly. "I was afraid of waking you."

Mary looks up and beams at her sister. "Sybil!" she says. "Darling, it's so good to see you."

Sybil moves to sit beside Mary on the bed. "They wouldn't tell me," she says, reaching out to run a finger across the blanket. "I know that I'm an aunt, but to what I'm not quite sure."

"You have a nephew," she smiles, the exhaustion evident in her voice.

"A boy? Mary, I'm so happy for you."

"We decided on George for a boy," says Mary. "George Matthew... I wish his father were here," she adds tearfully - it's been an emotional and exhausting few days for her and she finally cracks, allowing her true feelings to come pouring out. "I miss him so much," she says, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. "I feel as if I'm half myself without him."

Sybil's lips curl up into a smile. "Matthew adores you and, the second he meets George, he'll adore him too," she says. "He'll come as soon as he can, I have every faith."

Mary passes her precious bundle into the arms of his aunt and, in that moment, Sybil realises that she wants nothing more than to be a mother herself.

**_-xxx-_**

Sybil decides that later that evening is as good a time as any to broach the subject with her husband. She watches him as he readies himself for bed, no longer able to concentrate on the words in her book and so she snaps it shut before discarding it on the duvet beside her.

"Tom," she says quietly. "I've been thinking."

"You're always thinking," he chuckles. "And I love you for it."

Sybil toys with her wedding ring and shakes her head. "It's serious this time... I want us to have a child."

"That is serious," replies, admittedly a little taken aback. Much to Sybil's evident delight, he decides against putting on his pyjama top in favour of slipping under the covers beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he encourages her to snuggle against his chest. "What's brought this on?"

Sybil sighs. "I don't know," she replies. "No, I do know. It was seeing Mary with George... when I held him for the first time, I couldn't help but imagine that he was my own... **our **own. You've made me truly believe that I could have the world if I wanted it, that I can achieve anything, and there is so much that I want to see and to do but, right now, I want **us **to do this."

Moved by her heartfelt words, Tom presses a tender and loving kiss to her lips, to her forehead and then to the top of her lavender fragranced hair as she settles her head back against him. "Love, I want nothing more than to start a family with you. Though do you think it's possible that we already could be expecting?"

Sybil shakes her head. "No, I'm certain that we're not. It's Sunday..."

"The second Sunday."

"The second Sunday," she repeats. "No, we definitely aren't... though I can't help but wonder why it hasn't happened sooner."

Tom twirls the ribbon at the bottom of her plait around his fingers and sighs. "It will," he replies. "One thing I always remember my mother saying was that children are a gift and, when they come, they're a blessing. Until they do come along though, it's a blessing enough that I have you."

**_-xxx-_**

The Bransons have tea with the Strallans at Loxley the following morning - Tom and Anthony bond over their mutual love of cars whilst Sybil and Edith gush over their nephew.

"So, any sign of a new addition to your family?" Sybil asks once the men are out of the room having gone out to the garage to admire Anthony's Rolls Royce.

Edith blushes. "I... I'm not sure," she says. "I think I might be, though I haven't told anyone yet... not even Anthony, so you must promise not to say anything."

Sybil beams at her sister. "That's such wonderful news."

"I'm not certain, though I'm going to see Mary and the baby tomorrow so I'll go and see Doctor Clarkson if I get a spare minute. A part of me doesn't want to know though, I'm not sure I have it in me to be a mother."

Sybil takes hold of Edith's hand in both of her own. "Well I have every faith that you do. You **must** keep me informed."

"I will," Edith smiles. "What about you though? Is there a possibility that our children could share a birthday?"

Sybil laughs. "No, there isn't," she replies. "Though Tom and I talked about it last night and we've both decided that we'd love to have children."

"You really do love him, don't you?"

"I do," she nods. "Hard to believe considering how against this marriage I was in the beginning."

Edith nods in understanding. "But, in the end, you went into it on your own terms. I suppose that's a steadier foundation than most marriages."

"Yes," she replies. "I suppose it is."

**_-xxx-_**

It's just their luck that Matthew should arrive as they're about to leave for London, but their brother-in-law had been afforded the generous opportunity by his commanding officers to leave France the second he'd heard word of his son's birth. They hadn't kept him long, saying a quick hello and a goodbye before letting him spend some much needed time alone with his wife and their firstborn.

"Matthew's over the moon," Sybil says as she and Tom settle into the library back at home for a brandy before dinner. "Though I'm worried he's looking a little thin."

"I'm sure he's fine," replies Tom. "Nothing a decent meal and a good night's sleep can't fix."

"With a newborn?" Sybil laughs. "I wish him luck... Órlaith, how wonderful to see you," she smiles, turning to see her sister-in-law joining them in the library.

"Hello," she says. "How was Downton?"

"Wonderful," Sybil replies. "It was nice to go home."

"And the baby?"

"A boy named George... he's beautiful."

Tom furrows his brow, noticing that something isn't quite right with his sister. "Órlaith, what's wrong?"

She chews her lip nervously. "Something... something happened while you were away," she says. "Father wanted nothing to do with it and I'm not sure where he is now. You need to come downstairs... I think it's something you should see."

**_-xxx-_**

Strangely, Órlaith had insisted that only Tom follow her, leaving Sybil alone in the library to ponder just what it could be that had caused such a furore in their absence.

"What is this?" Tom asks, surveying the scene before him in the servants' hall. The staff are all gathered around the table, standing on their feet save for Gwen who remains seated clutching something tightly to her chest - a baby.

"Someone brought this by for you this morning, sir," says the butler, handing Tom an envelope. "Apparently, the child is your son."


	15. Home Truths

_**I'm sorry this has taken me so long and I'm not sure how many of you will still be reading but I'm back. This week has been utterly crazy - my job is pretty full on right now, I've moved house and a family bereavement meant I had to go home for a few days. As I say, I'm back now and I hope I can dedicate at least some of my evenings and weekends to writing. This chapter just deals with the aftermath of the last, as will the start of the next one and then we'll jump forward into 1916 where the story REALLY gets going. Enjoy and let me know what you think (I've had an awful week, your comments would deffinitely help cheer me up a bit!) :) x**_

* * *

His son.

He has a son.

But it's impossible. It's not possible that he has a child. He's a happily married man and, before that, he's only ever been with one other...

His suspicions are confirmed when the butler passes him an envelope addressed to him in an all too familiar hand. "We've found a nurse for him, Sir," the older man says. "And first thing tomorrow we can start looking for a nanny."

Tom nods and, with trembling hands, takes the letter from the butler. "Thank you, O'Neil," he says. "How is the old nursery looking?"

"Some of the maids saw to it this afternoon," says the housekeeper, Mrs Jenkins. "The young lady left him in a basket and we've had him in my sitting room for the time being."

"Good, so at least he can sleep there tonight. As you say, we can make some more permanent arrangements in the morning. Gwen?"

The maid snaps her head up from gazing adoringly at the precious bundle she's cradling in her arms and looks straight into the eyes of her lady's husband. "Yes, sir?"

"May I see him?"

She nods and gets to her feet, Tom moving towards her and she hears his breath catch as he holds his son in his arms for the very first time. The child's eyes flutter open and he has to smile at just how like his they are - he already feels a surge of protectiveness for the boy, his beautiful baby boy, and suddenly feels guilty that he's been absent for the first few months of his life.

"Where's his mother now?" he asks.

"We aren't sure, Mr Branson," says Mrs Jenkins. "Though she sounded terribly ill."

Concerned by this revelation, Tom gently presses a hand to the baby's forehead and furrows his brow. "He's a little warm," he says to himself. "O'Neil, Mrs Jenkins, could you call for a doctor?" he asks. "I know that it's probably nothing, but I'd just rather make sure. I think I'll take him upstairs but thank you all for everything you've done today."

The servants bid their young master good evening and not another word is said on the matter. Well, at least most seem to have grasped that silence is golden...

"Someone's got some explaining to do."

"Not now, Edna," Mrs Jenkins chides, wishing that she'd taken it upon herself sooner to teach the girl how to hold her tongue.

**_-xxx-_**

Sybil watches as Órlaith soothes her nephew and listens to her husband's account of what had happened earlier in the day.

"Well, does he have a name?" she asks, finally breaking the rather awkward silence that had only been filled by the baby's nonsensical gurgles.

"Daniel," Tom replies quietly, breathing a sigh of relief that at least she isn't berating him. "Daniel Thomas. It was in the letter." He hands her the piece of paper, his hands damp with sweat on account of how nervous he'd been about breaking the news to his wife that he'd fathered another woman's child. She's taken it quite well though and he can't help but wonder whether or not Órlaith may have filled her in beforehand.

Sybil nods, seemingly approving of the boy's name. "And what about Bronagh, where is she now?"

"That's a fair point, Tommy," says Órlaith. "She was very ill when she brought him here."

Sybil scans the letter. "There's the name of a street here," she says. "I think it's in the East End. We have to find her, just to make sure that she's alright."

"You're right," he says. "I'll go now. Surely she can't be that hard to find."

**_-xxx- _**

Poplar is another world. Tom has always been grateful for everything he has but, standing here between the rows and rows of tenement buildings, he realises just how lucky he is. This could very well have been his life if his father hadn't been in the right place at the right time. He rarely makes use of his father's motor and the chauffeur employed along with it, but tonight he suspects he'll have need of it. So as to remain inconspicuous, however, he asks the driver to drop him a couple if streets back from where he thinks he needs to be and continues the rest of his journey on foot.

"Excuse me," he asks a middle-aged man standing at the side of the road smoking a cigarette. "Do you know where this address is?"

The man sizes him up with a look of absolute disgust on his face. "What business' the likes of you got round 'ere, Mr Lah-de-dah," he sneers, taking in the smart cut of Tom's suit and coat. "And a fuckin' Mick to boot."

Tom opens his mouth, not quite sure how to reply. He's a largely solitary creature and so rarely has he experienced this blatant racism firsthand what with the close-knit group of friends that he has respecting him as much as he does them, though he knows that so many of his fellow countrymen are not quite so fortunate upon these shores.

"Leave 'im alone, Fred," another voice pipes up from out of the shadows, one which belongs to a much burlier man than the other. "It's not like 'e means any 'arm. Be off with you..."

Tom watches as the one named Fred leaves and immediately he can tell that this second man commands respect around these parts. "Jack Dooley," he says, holding out a grubby hand for Tom to shake.

"Good Irish name," Tom smiles, deciding that he rather likes this Mr Dooley.

Jack chuckles. "Mam and Da were from Belfast. You?"

"Dublin born and bred... sort of," replies Tom. "Can you help me? I asked your... friend... if he knew where I could find this place."

"Fred's no friend of mine," says Jack. "Though I know my fist would like to be friends with his face sometimes. Oh, don't look so shocked, boyo; you're in the East End now, not some Belgravia ballroom."

"I try to avoid Belgravia ballrooms at all cost."

"I like you..."

"Tom," he replies. "Tom Branson."

"Well, Tom Branson, I can help you, as it goes," Jack tells him. "I live not far from there. I'll show you."

**_-xxx-_**

Tom Follows Jack to another seemingly identical street and asks him to follow him into the building in which he hopes they'll find Bronagh. They knock on every door but nobody seems to know who she is or, if they do, where she might be. They're about to give up hope when Jack points to a door set slightly back from all the others - it's dark and uninviting and Tom suddenly feels a shiver run straight down his spine, a general feeling of unease settling over him.

Jack watches as he tries the door - it's locked, but it's so flimsy that Tom is able to push his way in. The smell of damp is overwhelming and he can barely see a couple of feet in front of him.

"Bronagh?" he calls out quietly so as not to startle her if she's here. A horribly chesty and painful sounding cough echoes through the darkness. "Bronagh?" he calls again and is certain that he hears something vaguely sounding like his own name said weakly back to him. He follows the sound into a tiny little room adjoining the main one and the only furniture, a rickety old metal framed bed, is occupied by a lifeless being. So shocked is Tom by what he sees that he's rooted to the spot.

"Tom?" Bronagh croaks. "Is that you?"

Even though he knows she probably can't see him, Tom nods and finally musters the courage to approach her. "It's me," he says, crouching down at her bedside. "I'm here." Even in the dim light he can see that her skin is pale and waxy, that she's painfully thin and a shadow of the woman he once loved. He raises a hand to her forehead only to find that she's burning up

"Daniel?"

"He's fine," Tom reassures her, stroking her hair. "He's safe. We're going to look after him, just like I'm going to look after you." He turns to Jack who stands motionless in the door. "Just around the corner you'll find my father's car," he says. "Tell the chauffeur, Thompson is his name, that I sent you and to bring you back here as quick as he can. I need to get her to a hospital... GO!"

Jack darts off, quick as a flash in search of Thompson and the motor, leaving Tom alone to hold Bronagh's hand and say a silent prayer that she makes it through the night.

**_-xxx-_**

He's not sure how long he's been sitting in the chair by her bedside and he's lost count of the number of times he's been asked to leave by various members of staff. There is, however, a very kindly young nurse who takes pity on him and brings him tea and the odd biscuit when she can manage to steal one - Tom rather suspects that the girl may have something of a crush on him, but he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's a married man and crush her spirits.

"Tom?" Bronagh manages to croak as she finally wakes up. "Tom, are you still here?"

"I'm here," he says softly in Irish, reaching out to take hold of her hand, stroking his thumb across her bony knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere."Go back to sleep. Don't worry about a thing... you just concentrate on getting yourself better."

"But... the baby?"

"Shhh," he hushes, seeing that she's exerting herself. "The baby's fine too. Fine pair of lungs on him," Tom chuckles.

Bronagh's dry and cracked lips curl up into the faintest hint of a smile and it's clear that even the slightest of movements is agonisingly painful. "Just like his father," she says, only to begin coughing almost violently. Tom rubs her back, soothing her as she struggles to catch her breath and whispers calming words in the tongue of their beloved homeland. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about him," she apologises, tears welling up in her bloodshot eyes. "I wanted to tell you, but he wouldn't let me. he said that you'd already brought too much shame to the family and that this would be the final straw... he couldn't take this as well."  
Tom visibly tenses. "I don't suppose there's any need to ask who you mean," he mutters. He's so far beyond angry, but now is neither the time nor the place to let his emotions show.

"He paid me not to say anything," she says quietly. "I refused his money... I kept trying to contact you but he intercepted the letters. It... it's what he does Tom... he always finds a way."

Tom leans forward and grips Bronagh's hand even tighter. "So how did you end up like this?" he asks. "I thought you were married? Or engaged at the very least."

"He died," she says. "Went and joined that bloody war."

"Oh Bronagh..."

"Don't, Tom," she interrupts. "Don't pity me."

Tom doesn't quite know what to say and that's probably a good thing considering how tired she looks. He brushes the loose strands of her hair from her face and places a tender kiss to her forehead. "Go to sleep," he tells her. "Get some rest and I'll be back first thing tomorrow."

"Your wife will be wondering where you are."

Tom shakes his head. "She'll understand."

"She's a lucky woman."

"Bronagh..."

"No, Tom," she interrupts. "What you and I had is in the past. A part of me will always love you... but you need to go back to your Lady Sybil. Go back to your son..."  
"Our son."

Bronagh smiles. "As I say, what we had is in the past, but he is very much the future," she says, stifling a yawn. Her eyes are heavy with sleep and she only has the energy to say one last thing before she finally succumbs to it. "Give him the best start to that future that he could possibly have."

**_-xxx-_**

The Park House is an exclusive gentleman's club close to Westminster, frequented by the great and the good of London society. Knowing a man who knew a man, Ted Branson had somehow managed to find himself a regular patron of this elite establishment and it was here that Tom knew he would find him. His father often came here when he was still in London but didn't feel very much like being at home with his children, sometimes even going so far as to book a room for several nights at a time.

He's sitting there in his usual winged-back armchair by the fire in the otherwise empty room, a half empty glass of a fine blend of whisky in his hand when Tom arrives. "Do I even need to ask what this is about?"

"I wouldn't think so," his son replies. "How could you?"

"She has no proof."

"The child himself is proof enough," Tom retorts. "He looks exactly like me!" He bites his lip to stop himself from saying something that he'll later come to regret. "You have exactly what you always wanted... an heir who isn't me."

"An **heir**?" Ted scoffs. "He's illegitimate... a bastard..."

"Then I'll legitimise him," Tom says. "I'll find a way to ensure that he is recognised as **my** son. Sometimes I just wish you'd recognise me as your own son too."

Ted sighs wearily. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" he asks. "The shame and the scandal you've brought upon this family?"

"What family? This family fell apart the day my mother died. You've barely even acknowledged just how grown up Órlaith is and I don't even know where to begin when it comes to how things have been between the two of us since Kieran was killed." He knows that he's ranting, but he just can't hold it in anymore. Finally, he says the one thing that's been playing on his mind for years now. "Sometimes I think you wish that I was dead and not him."

Ted says nothing, but his silence speaks louder than words ever could.

**_-xxx-_**

The doctor had given baby Daniel an almost clean bill of health - his temperature was nothing to be concerned of for the moment and all he needed was a few good feeds and to be kept warm, though they should telephone for him the moment they noticed any sort of deterioration.

Whilst Órlaith sees the doctor out, Sybil remains in the nursery and holds the tiny bundle in her arms, wondering how something so small could have such a big impact on so many lives. Even at just a few months old, it was clear to see that he was the absolute image of his father.

"You're a natural," a familiar voice says from behind her and she turns to see her husband standing there in the doorway, watching her with the baby. She's not sure how long he's been standing there, but she's certainly glad to see him.

"I don't know much about babies," Sybil replies quietly. "But I'm sure they aren't supposed to be awake this late. The doctor has been working at one of the local hospitals and they've just brought in a number of wounded men from the Front. He was sorry, but he couldn't get away any sooner."

Tom moves to stand beside them both, reaching out to caress his son's downy hair. "It's fine," he tells her. "Just as long as he's alright."

"We just need to keep an eye on him," says Sybil. "But, other than that, there isn't anything of any real concern. How's Bronagh?"

Tom sighs. "I'm worried about her. Though I do think that she's in the best possible place."

"You did the right thing."

"And what about you? How are you feeling about all of this?"

Sybil looks up at him rather sheepishly, as if she's rather ashamed at what she has to say in answer to his question. "Tom, would you think me awful if I said that I was a tiny bit jealous at first? I was jealous of the fact that another woman gave you what I can't seem to?"

Tom chuckles, knowing that there isn't a chance she could mean this maliciously in any way, shape or form. "No," he replies with a shake of his head. "No, not at all. I think it's probably a natural reaction."

"It wasn't a feeling that lasted very long," she tells him. "Because I quickly realised that none of that mattered. He's your son and part of your family... **our **family."

Tom pulls his wife and child into a tight embrace then, feeling for the first time that night as though everything really is going to be alright. "Oh my darling," he whispers against her lavender fragranced curls. "I do love you so much."


End file.
